to me, as from her own.  So I must do my best, sadly imperfect though I
feel it to be.

"The taking of the Bastille was the signal for outrages through many
parts of the country.  Chateaux were burnt, convents sacked and
destroyed, many even among the superior farmer class, who had had
nothing to do with the government or the oppression of the poor, whose
only crime was that through their industry and economy they had grown
richer than their neighbours, suffered as well as their betters.  In
Paris itself many of the most conspicuous among the nobility were
dragged by the mob from their houses and put to death in a horrible way,
by being hanged on the street lamps.  These I have always thought much
more to be pitied than those later sufferers who perished by the famous
guillotine; for this first manner of death united insult to barbarity.

"How it came to pass that my great-uncle, the Marquis de Sarinet, was
not among those on whom this first fury was wreaked, my mother has often
felt at a loss to explain.  It may have been that he had never mixed
himself up much with affairs of state--for he was selfish even in this,
disliking everything which gave him trouble--and that thus his name was
not one of the best known.  But his punishment had already begun, for
the following winter saw the complete destruction by fire, after it had
been robbed of everything of value, of the beautiful old Chateau of
Sarinet.

"News of this was not long in reaching Valmont.

"All through these months many a faithful heart there had ached with
anxiety for their Countess and her child.  But the disordered state of
things was having everywhere a bad effect.  Quiet and peaceable folk
began to be frightened.  Many dared not express any interest in or
sympathy with those whose turn it was now to be unjustly and cruelly
treated.  And among the loose characters who now and then passed through
or loitered about our quiet Valmont, there were not wanting some on the
look-out for mischief-making.

"`You speak of your lady as different from others,' they would say.
`Let her show herself among you.  If she cared for you she would be
here, not amusing herself and wasting money on nonsense like all the
fine ladies in Paris.  It is that which has brought ruin on the
country.'

"And some listened to and believed these cunning words, so that already,
had the Countess just then returned to Valmont, it is to be doubted if
she would have been received with the old affection.  There was some
reason, too, for discontent.  Collet, the Countess's bailiff, was the
most discreet of men, devoted to the family's interest, but at the same
time ready to carry out all his lady's endeavours to do good to her
people.  But it began to be noticed that he was more rigorous than
formerly in exacting all the payments due, also that less money was
forthcoming for charitable purposes, that the new year's gifts year by
year were curtailed, and that Collet looked anxious and careworn.

"`It is his bad conscience,' said some.  `He is going the way of all
like him, enriching himself at our expense.'

"`And the Countess is no doubt learning to throw about her money too.
Trust fine ladies for that, however sweet-spoken they may be; and after
all she is a Sarinet by birth,' said others.

"But I need not say that in the Germains' cottage, and indeed in _most_
of those in the village, nothing of this kind was believed, and once or
twice, when words or hints to this effect were uttered before Pierre,
his father had to check the hot indignation with which the lad would
have met them, reminding him that by a dignified silence he was both
showing more respect for their lady, and perhaps better serving her
cause.  He could speak with authority, for both he and the old cure were
in poor Collet's confidence, and knew, what he thought it would be
dishonourable to tell, that he strongly suspected that the Marquis,
having exhausted his own resources, was now helping himself to the money
of his sister and his niece.  And more than once both were of a mind to
say out what they were almost, sure of.  `If it goes much further we
shall feel it our duty to do so,' said the cure to the bailiff.  `And
even now I have almost made up my mind to write to the Countess, for I
am certain she has no idea of what is being done, to some extent, in her
name.'

"But just as the good man was meditating a letter to Paris, one was
received from there which altered the state of things, and for a long
time brought some sunshine and hopefulness back to the hearts of the
faithful friends of Edmee and her mother.

"The Countess and her daughter were returning to Valmont.

"`All then will be well,' said Madame Germain, wiping her eyes from
which were running tears of joy.  `Things are evidently quieting down;
otherwise our ladies would not think of undertaking the journey.  Those
poor, foolish people, no doubt, seeing how ready the king is to agree to
everything reasonable, will be satisfied at last, and all will be well.'

"Nor was she the only one to hope, from time to time, during these early
years of the Revolution, that the black cloud might after all disperse.
For, thanks to the efforts of some unselfish and wise men, more than
once a cordial understanding between the king, the government, and the
people was almost arrived at, though always, alas! to be again broken
through by treachery or mistakes or passionate outburst on one side or
the other.

"This was in the summer of 1790, about a year after the taking of the
Bastille.  All through the autumn days that followed, the Germain family
and others waited eagerly for further news from Paris.  At last came
again a few hurried words to Madame Germain from the Countess, referring
to other letters sent by the post which had never been received at
Valmont.  She had found it impossible, she said, to carry out her plan
of returning home that last summer.  The Marquis had opposed it; he was
so sure that things were calming down, and he objected to any member of
his family leaving Paris.  `So again,' wrote the poor lady, `Edmee and I
must take patience.  But surely _next_ summer, the fourth since our
absence, will see us in our own dear home.'

"Next summer!  Preceded by a severe winter, which saw sufferings such as
Valmont had never known before--for the demands on Collet for money
became more and more peremptory, and though the cure and Germain had
written to the Countess a full account of the state of things, no notice
had been taken of it, and they began to fear she had never received
their letter--`next summer' brought no better state of things.  The king
and his family were now, to all intents and purposes, prisoners in the
hands of their people; the few wiser and cooler-headed men in the
government were overruled; great numbers of the better classes had left
their unhappy country; of those whom obstinacy, in some cases poverty,
caused to remain, till too late to get away, the fate became daily more
uncertain.  And among these there was every reason to fear were Edmee de
Valmont and her mother!

"`If they had left the country, I feel sure they would have found some
means of letting us know,' said Madame Germain, shaking her head, for
the long anxiety and uncertainty had lessened her hopefulness.  And just
as her husband and son, after discussing for perhaps the hundredth time
this sad state of things, had arrived at the conclusion that _something_
must be done, _some_ step they must and would take, there came again
suddenly, and in an unexpected way, news of the two so dear to them.

"It came in the shape of a very feeble and very old man, who, looking
more dead than alive, dragged himself one evening, late in the month of
September, in the year I have now reached in my narrative, that of 1792,
to the door of the forester's cottage, and there, half-fainting on the
threshold, asked in a broken voice for Germain or his wife.  They did
not know him in the least--how could they, in this wretched,
dust-and-mud-covered old beggar, whose white beard hung neglectedly,
whose feet were almost shoeless, whose poor old hands trembled with
nervous weakness, have recognised the carefully-attired, respectable,
nay stately Ludovic, who had driven away on the box of the travelling
chariot, so proud to follow his ladies to the end of the world, had they
bidden him?  His devotion had cost him dear, poor old man, and as he
feebly murmured--

"`Don't you know me--your old friend Ludovic?' mother Germain burst into
tears--tears of pity for him, of terror for those he had come from.

"They at once did their best for him.  It would have been cruel to
question him till he had regained a little strength, and indeed useless.
Now that he had reached the end of his journey, his forces seemed
altogether to collapse, and for some hours they feared he would die
without having told them anything.  But food and wine carefully
administered, and a refreshing sleep into which he fell, did wonders for
him, for notwithstanding his age, he had been till lately a vigorous and
healthy man; and by the evening he woke up greatly revived, and eager to
explain everything, and by degrees his kind hosts heard all, which
perhaps it is well to give as far as possible in his own words--for the
events he related have often been told me both by my mother who had seen
them herself, and by my father who heard them at the moment from
Ludovic's own lips.

"`I never thought I should reach here alive,' began the old man.  `The
last few days have been terribly hard.  From some distance on the other
side of Machard I have come on foot.  But few conveyances are on the
road--no longer a chance of meeting with those of some of the great
lords whose attendants, had they known who I was, would have given me a
lift--no, the days of such travelling are over indeed; and in the few
public coaches I met I could not have had a place, for I had not a sou!
She gave me all she had--our dear lady--but it was very little, and
there was no time to sell the jewels she had with her.  Since four or
five days I have scarcely tasted any food, though once or twice kind
souls took pity on me.  The first part of the journey was easy enough.
I travelled in the public conveyances, to save time; but though easy, I
soon saw it was a risk.  While I was decently dressed they looked at me
more than once with suspicion--above all that my clothes, though they
were shabby enough compared with those you used to know me in, in
happier days, had the look of my position, and nobleman's servants are
now often objects of suspicion.  So I decided to make the rest of the
way as best I could, getting a lift in a cart as long as my money
lasted, and when my clothes became so shabby I dare say it was a
safeguard.  At all events here I am!  God be thanked, if I could but
think my dear ladies were also in safety!'

"`But where are they?--what of them?' burst out Pierre, who had listened
with compassion indeed, but not without a certain impatience, to the
poor old man's somewhat rambling account of his own adventures.

"`Softly, my boy,' said his mother in a low voice.  `Do not hurry him,
let him tell all in his own way, otherwise he may grow confused.'

"But Pierre's words had done no harm.

"`Of course,' said Ludovic, `that is where I should have begun, instead
of wasting time over my own affairs, stupid old man that I am.  But you
must forgive me, my good friends.  Old age is garrulous, and finds it
difficult to keep to the point.  Where was I?' and he looked round
feebly.

"`You were saying,' said Pierre, trying to restrain his impatience, `how
thankful you would be, were you assured that the Countess and her
daughter were in safety like yourself; and I interrupted you entreating
you to tell us where you believe them to be.'

"`Where?' said Ludovic; `in Paris.  At least, I fear it is unlikely that
they will again have attempted to leave.'

"`Attempted to leave it!  Did they do so? and did they not succeed?'
exclaimed the Germains together.

"`Alas, no!' replied Ludovic, shaking his white head.  `That is how I
come to be here alone.  I will tell you all.  You have heard, no doubt,
the principal events of this sad time.  My lady has been longing to
return to Valmont almost ever since she left it, but the Marquis has
always opposed it.  Two years ago she at last gained his consent, and
was on the point of starting, when some one put it into his head that it
was undignified, and would have a bad effect for any member of his
family to leave his house, and as my lady could get no money except from
him, and as she was also unwilling to anger him, she again gave in.  He
is the most obstinate man--even now he will not believe that there is
any danger for him or his.  And my lady at last came to see that if she
is to get away, it must be without his assistance.  All these weary
months she has been waiting for an opportunity.  At last, about three
weeks ago, all seemed favourable.  The Marquis was away for a day or
two, with some of his friends, who, like him, have refused to take
warning, and all arrangements had been made for my ladies and myself to
start quietly.  We were to travel in a small plain carriage, not likely
to attract attention, which a friend of the Marquis's, less obstinate
than he, and really concerned for the Countess and her daughter, had
hired, with a driver he could trust.  This gentleman,--how I do not
know--had procured the necessary papers, which described the Countess as
my daughter, returning to the country for her health.  I was described
as a shopkeeper of Tours.  Well, we started--oh the joy of Mademoiselle
Edmee!  The only drawback was the poor boy Edmond, whom my lady dared
not bring away, in face of his father's commands that he was to stay.
She had already fought hard to get leave for him to accompany them when
they _should_ leave--and who was heart-broken.  At the last moment my
lady got out of the carriage again to clasp him in her arms, and whisper
some words of comfort; it caused a little delay; sometimes I have
thought those three minutes might have saved us.  It was not to be.  I
can hardly bear to tell you of our terrible disappointment.  We had
scarcely got the length of the street when we met the Marquis returning,
in a furious temper at having found it impossible to get as far as the
country house, a few miles out of Paris, where he was to meet his
friends.  He was furious, and, perhaps for the first time, alarmed; for,
my friends, do you know what had happened the night before?--it was that
of the 2nd of September!' and Ludovic looked up hesitatingly.  Germain
bowed his head.

"`I know,' he said, `and so does Pierre.  But we would not tell my poor
wife.  However, perhaps it is foolish,' and turning to Madame Germain,
he rapidly related to her how on that dreadful night bands of wretches,
armed with pikes and hatchets, had burst open the doors of the prisons
of Paris, and there slaughtered the unfortunate beings--all of the upper
classes, and many innocent of any wrong--who had been seized and shut up
as `suspected' of disloyalty to the new Government.  For which bloody
deed the wretches who had committed it were liberally rewarded by the
authorities!

"`Yes,' continued Ludovic, `for the first time the Marquis believed that
the mob--the hounds and dogs he had despised--was a terrible enemy to
have aroused, for the worst and lowest come to the front at such times.
Perhaps he meant it for the best; but it was, I fear, an awful mistake.
He turned the horses' heads, and insisted on his sister returning to his
hotel.  It was utterly impossible, he maintained, for her to attempt the
journey thus alone and unprotected, save by an old fool, as he amiably
called _me_.  But what did I care?  And there we were again--
half-an-hour after our hopeful departure--powerless and heart-broken
with disappointment.  What the Countess heard of the horrors I have told
you I do not know--I dared not ask, for if she had _not_ heard all, I
would have been the last to tell her.  But that evening, late, she sent
for me privately, and gave me her instructions.  She was as pale as
death--she has changed terribly, and what wonder!  Many a time I have
thought our dear lady was not long for this world, and she thinks so, I
believe, herself.  "My good Ludovic," she said, "this has been a
terrible disappointment.  But for the moment I can attempt nothing else.
It may be here, as my brother says, that in spite of all our
precautions, in the present terribly excited state of the town, had we
got as far as the barriers it would but have been to be stopped, and
perhaps seized and imprisoned.  He insists that it is better to wait a
few days.  But he has promised me at once to arrange for our all flying
to Valmont--poor man, at Sarinet there is no longer a roof to shelter
him and his!--and so, my good Ludovic, I must try to take courage and
hope, though my mind misgives me sorely.  For that my poor brother has
hitherto escaped seems to me scarcely short of a miracle, and I cannot
feel confidence in his still doing so.  Therefore, my faithful friend, I
want _you_ to set off at once for Valmont.  It is for yourself; less
risk than staying here, not that you think of that, I know, and it is
the best service you can at present render me and my child.  Alone you
will have, I am assured, little difficulty in making your way.  Here is
all the money I have been able to collect; to give you any of my jewels
would but expose you to suspicion; take it and go.  And arrived at
Valmont, seek at once my dear Germains.  If by the end of this month
they or you have no news of me--then I fear, it will not mean good
news--then, I must trust to them to consider if in any way they can help
me, or still more my child.  Should my brother be taken, I have a plan
in my head, for concealing ourselves here in Paris, till we can venture
to try to escape.  And Germain is a shrewd and clever man.  I fancy
there would be no risk for _him_ in coming to Paris, and if he knows we
are in danger, I believe nothing would keep him from attempting it.
With his help and strong arm, we might manage a safe disguise.  Should
we succeed, as my brother hopes, in all leaving Paris together, I shall
find means of letting you know at Valmont.  Should we fail I shall still
hope to conceal myself and Edmee, though at present I cannot make any
detailed plan.  One thing I may tell you"--and here my lady lowered her
voice--"the _only_ person I trust here is Marguerite Ribou.  And now, my
good Ludovic, the sooner you leave the better.  The Marquis has no idea
at present of my attempting anything.  It will be time enough for me to
tell him you are gone when you are beyond recall."  And then,' continued
Ludovic, `she held out her hand; I kissed it, in weeping you may be
sure, and I obeyed her.  That night I spent in a little tavern near the
barriers, and I got out the next morning without difficulty.  And here--
here at last, after all my troubles, I am!  I have told you, I think, my
lady's exact words.  It is now--is it not?--near the end of September?'

"`The twentieth,' replied Pierre.

"`And you have no news?'

"`Not a word,' said Germain.

"`Then,' said old Ludovic, `it is for you to decide what can be done.  A
few days still--a few days perhaps we can wait.  It will give me time to
recover my old wits a little, if it brings no news from our poor
ladies.'"

CHAPTER NINE.

"Long after poor old Ludovic was in bed and asleep that night, the
Germains sat up talking over all he had told them.

"`To-morrow will be the twenty-first of September,' said old Germain
thoughtfully; `that makes nine days more to wait--'

"`But should we wait, father,' exclaimed Pierre.  `I feel so certain no
news will come, and every day, every hour, it is so much time lost--can
we not set off at once?  Father, mother, let me go!  I am so young and
strong--fatigue is nothing to me, and father is not so strong as he
was,' which was true, for rheumatism, that sad enemy of those whose
duties force them to be out in all weather, had already more than once,
for weeks at a time, crippled the forester's active limbs.

"The father and mother looked at each other.  True, they had said they
would not grudge their boy in the service they had all their lives been
devoted to, and the risk they did not think so great for him as it
perhaps really was.  But when it came to the point of his setting off on
the long journey--so uncertain how to proceed, so young and
inexperienced as he was?

"`No, my son,' said Germain.  `It is right that I should go myself.  I
am an ignorant man--less taught than you--but I have the training of
age, and have learnt to keep cool and quiet when your fiery young tongue
would be getting you into trouble.  No, stay you here and take care of
your mother, and I will go where it is my duty to go.  To-morrow we will
talk over about when I should start.  I should like to hear what Nanette
Delmar thinks about it,' and with these words he rose from his chair,
but stiffly and with difficulty; his wife and Pierre both noticed it
more than heretofore.  He was not the man he had been.

"`Sitting so long cramps one--and the fire is out too,' he said.

"But his wife looked concerned.

"`These damp days in the woods are bringing the rheumatism out again, I
fear,' she said sadly; `but I must not murmur; I have had almost too
happy a life, even compared with my dear lady.  No, I would grudge
nothing for _her_.'

"Pierre kissed her--more affectionately even than usual, as he bade her
good-night.  Then he went up to his own little room, his mother thought,
to go to bed and sleep as usual.

"But early the next morning--very early, while the autumn haze was still
over the woods, and the hoarfrost on the fields, there came a soft tap
to young Madame Delmar's door.  Nanette was up already, for her husband
was working just now at some distance, and she had to get his soup ready
betimes, and so, as he had half hoped, Pierre Germain found her alone.

"He quickly explained his errand.  He had come to charge her with the
duty of telling his parents that he had gone.

"`They must not think me disobedient,' he said.  `I feel that I am
right, and they too will come to see it.  My father is not what he was;
if he set off on the journey alone he might fall ill on the way and we
never know it; or if I went with him I might be obliged to nurse him in
some strange place, feeling miserable at nothing being done.  No,
Nanette, father is best at home.  I am young and strong, and I have so
often thought over this, and all that I might have to do, that it seems
to me as if I had got it by heart.  But you, Nanette, who have seen them
so much more lately than we, who have been in Paris and know all about
where they live and everything, I want you to talk to me, and tell me
all you can, so that I shall feel less confused when I get there.'

"`Willingly,' said Nanette.  And then after putting the rest of the soup
they had had on to the fire again to heat for Pierre, and fetching some
bread and a couple of eggs to beat up into an omelette--he must have a
good breakfast before starting, she said--she sat down and told him all
she could think of.  She described the house, the rooms occupied by
Edmee and her mother, the one or two among the servants she thought
better off than the others, though the only one she seemed to have any
real confidence in was Marguerite Ribou.

"`And even she,' said Pierre, `she has more reason to wish for revenge
than any of them--are you sure we can trust her?'

"`She has no ill-will, nothing but good feelings to our ladies,' said
Nanette, thoughtfully.  `But beyond that--as to the Sarinet family,
certainly I am sure she is bitter past words.  And that Victorine may
have influenced her!  Of her I need not tell you to beware.'

"`Then if all is still as usual with them when I get there,' said
Pierre, `how should I proceed?  It would not be wise to say I came from
Valmont to see the Countess.'

"`No,' said Nanette, `for if the Marquis were still there he might hear
of it, and he would suspect his sister was again making some plan
without telling him, which he would only oppose--he is so obstinate.
No, I think you had better ask for Marguerite, and judge for yourself.
But Pierre, I have faint hopes,' and Nanette's face grew very grave,
`very small hope that you will find things as they were in the Rue de
Lille.  Had they still been so I feel sure the Countess would have
written--and, indeed, I do not think she would have remained there all
this time without making some other effort to get away.'

"`She may have written,' said Pierre; `letters miscarry so in these
days.'

"`If she dared write I am sure she will have done so,' said Nanette,
`unless,' and the young woman shuddered.  `No, do not let us think the
worst; only it is sometimes impossible not to remember all I heard
there.  But again, if the Countess is in disguise somewhere, you see she
would not dare to write for fear her letter might be traced, and would
betray who she was.'

"`Should I know Mademoiselle Edmee, again if I saw her, do you think?'
asked Pierre.

"`Oh yes, I think so; she has grown tall, of course, but still she has
the same face.  Indeed, she is still very like the dear little picture.
My lady never has it out of her sight.  It hangs in her room in Paris
just as it did here.'

"`Many a time my mother and I have wished they had left it at the
Chateau,' said Pierre with a smile; `it would have been some
consolation.'

"`Ah, yes; that I understand,' said Nanette.

"But then Pierre started up.

"`I must be off,' he said.  `I mean to get over a good piece of ground
before the day is old.'

"`But you are not going on foot?  You have some money with you, surely?'
said Madame Delmar anxiously.

"`Oh yes,' said Pierre; `I have enough to pay my journey.  I mean to get
on as fast as I can till I am near Paris.  Then, perhaps, it will be as
well to go on foot.  No one will pay any attention to a young fellow
like me, and I daresay it is as well for me not to have much money with
me.  It might be stolen.  The Countess is sure to have money; there is
no fear on _that_ score!'

"Nanette hesitated.

"`I don't know,' she said; `there is no telling to what straits even she
may be brought.  See here, Pierre,' she added, going to a cupboard from
which she took out a locked box; `in here are some of my savings.  Take
what you can; it is my own money, and even if it were not, Albert would
be the last to grudge it in such a case,' and she forced into the boy's
hands a little packet containing a few gold coins.  `See here, a moment;
I will stitch it into the lining of your coat, where no one would
suspect it.'

"Pierre did not resist.

"`It is for them,' he said simply, `and for them I thank you.  At worst,
Nanette, my father and mother would repay you.  Tell them you gave it to
me; it will make them less anxious about me.  Try to see them soon--
before noon, will you not?  And tell them you agree with me that if
anything is to be done it is best at once, and that it was best for my
father to stay at home.'

"`Yes,' said Nanette, `I will say all.  I think you are right, Pierre.
Farewell, and God bless you, my friend!'

"She stood at the door, watching him along the road as far as she could
see, and then with a sigh re-entered her cottage.

"`I wish he were safe back again, and our dear ladies with him,' she
said to herself.  `Though even their absence would seem nothing now,
were one sure they were in safety.  I wish they were safe in some other
country, however far away, and even if we could not see them for years.
It is too dreadful to think of what may happen to them--of what may have
already happened.  My sweet lady and the dear tender little Edmee!  Ah!
I must not think of it, or I shall unfit myself for everything.  Albert
must not tell me any more of the dreadful things he hears.  Not till
_they_ are safe at least.'

"I cannot tell very much of Pierre Germain's journey to Paris.  He
himself used to say he did not, in after years, recall it very clearly;
later events and anxieties made it grow vague and cloudy.  But nothing
of very great importance occurred.  As he had himself said, he was not a
figure in any way conspicuous, or likely to draw much attention.  A
fine, sturdy young fellow of seventeen or eighteen, his little bundle
slung over his shoulder, making his way along the country roads,
whistling as he went, or now and then mounted on the top of the public
coach ready for a little conversation, or to give a helping hand with
the horses if he were wanted--he had not the appearance of a dangerous
person.  Nor would any one have suspected the intense anxiety he learned
so well to hide, the burning eagerness to get to the end of his journey
which possessed him.  All the information he could pick up, without
seeming too much interested in doing so, he tried to acquire.  And the
nearer he approached the capital the greater seemed the half-suppressed
excitement, the stranger became the looks and tones of many of the
people he came across; while all through his journey he met the sight of
burnt and ruined chateaux, of convents deserted by their inmates and
pillaged by the neighbouring townspeople or villagers, of farms where no
longer the cheerful sounds of labour were to be heard--and everywhere
misery and reckless disorder.

"He had no difficulty in entering the great city.

"In those days it was much easier to get into Paris than, once there, to
get out again.  The bundle which he carried was carelessly glanced at by
the official at the barriers, who asked him mockingly if he had come to
make his fortune in Paris, taking him for a country lad attracted, like
hundreds of others, by the accounts of the lawlessness and licence of
the `rule of the mob,' and Pierre laughed back a mocking reply.  He did
not yet, not till he had made his way through what seemed to him
innumerable streets, dare to ask for the Rue de Lille, so fearful was he
of attracting attention by seeming to have any errand about which he
might be questioned.  But at last, feeling hungry and tired, he ventured
into a milk shop, where a meek, rather frightened-looking woman, with a
little child in her arms, was standing behind the counter.

"`Madame,' he was beginning, but the woman quickly interrupted him:
`Citizeness, you mean, boy,' she said.  `Whence do you come to use a
word we never hear now?' and on his hastily begging her pardon, `it is
not for me; it matters nothing to me.  It is for yourself, citizen,' she
added.  `You must watch your words, and indeed by your looks it were
better for you to go back whence you came.'

"Pierre felt startled.  `By my looks, citizeness,' he said.  `I look
what I am--a country lad come to see Paris for the first time.'

"`Better never have seen it, then,' said the woman, earnestly.  `Go back
to your home, if you have one, my boy, for you look honest and
innocent,' but she spoke in a low voice, and glanced round her as if
afraid of being overheard.

"There was something in her face, in her very timidity, which inspired
Pierre with confidence.

"`I cannot go back,' he said, speaking also in a low voice.  `I have
come for a purpose, but I am a complete stranger.  Perhaps you can help
me.  Will you tell me the way to the Rue de Lille?'

"The woman looked at him with regret.

"`It is not far from here,' she said; `but it is a long street.  What
house do you want there?'

"`The house--the hotel of the Marquis de Sarinet,' he replied, but low
as he spoke the woman held up her hand with a warning gesture.

"`Hush, hush!' she said, `we know no such names.  The citizen Sarinet,'
she continued, reflectively; `no, I do not remember ever to have heard
of such an one.  But there are few houses now inhabited by their former
owners in the Rue de Lille.  You must ask there, but take care _how_ you
ask.'

"`Once there, I can find the house, I am sure,' said Pierre; `it has
been so well described to me.  If you will direct me to the street, that
is enough.  But first, can you give me a cup of milk?  I have had
nothing to eat or drink to-day.'

"`You shall have some coffee and some bread,' said the woman.  `I always
have it ready early in the morning, as I used to in quieter times.  But
my customers are less regular than then.  Those who spend their nights
drinking in the taverns, are not ready betimes.  Keep out of such
places, my boy, and take my advice--get back to your mother in the
country as soon as you can.'

"`I wish nothing better,' said Pierre; `but first I must do what I have
come for.'

"And then the good woman gave him his breakfast, for which he paid her
well.  `Poor thing, it was not easy for those who stayed quietly at home
to get on now-a-days,' she said.  Her husband had done no work for long.
Where he got what he brought home, though only to waste it, she did not
like to ask.

"`It is all the same cry now,' she said, waxing bolder in her
confidences, and glad to have some one to talk to.

"`They won't work.  What is the great republic for if they are to go on
working, they say?  And so they drink and quarrel, and many are half the
time starving.  One day they feast like princes, and the next they have
nothing.  Everything is for all, and all are equal, they say; but for my
part, I think it is rather take who can, and those who can't go
without--no, no, we are a long way off the fine things they promise us
yet.'

"And she was so taken up with her own troubles that Pierre could not get
from her any information as to how things had been going of late;
whether many aristocrats had been seized, or whether many had fled.  He
only stopped her long list of grievances by saying he must go, and
begging her to direct him.  She did so, and then reverting to his own
risk, she again begged him to be careful.

"`Return if you can, and tell me how you get on.  But do not talk more
than you can help; above all, do not be persuaded to enter the taverns
and take wine.'

"`I never take wine,' said Pierre.

"`The more risk then if you did.  It would go to your head, and you
might tell what is better untold.  Good morning, little citizen,' she
called out after him in a louder and rougher tone than was natural to
her, but which Pierre understood to be for the benefit of a group of
dissipated-looking men in blouses, who came sauntering along, their
hands in their pockets, just at the moment.

"He had no difficulty in finding his way to the Rue de Lille, nor, once
there, in picking out, thanks to the exact landmarks Nanette had given
him, the great wooden doors, or gates rather, enclosing the courtyard of
the Hotel de Sarinet.  Put even outside, in the street where he stood,
he seemed to distinguish a deserted air about the place.  At that early
hour in the morning it would only have been natural for the doors to
have been open, to have seen some sweeping or cleaning going on inside,
and have heard the cheerful sounds of grooms brushing down their horses
and rolling out the heavy carriages to be aired.  But, on the contrary,
there was no sound; all was appallingly silent, and the street itself
seemed like a place of the dead.  There was no one of whom he could have
made inquiry, had he wished.  So after an instant's hesitation Pierre
lifted the heavy knocker attached to the little door leading into the
porter's lodge, at the side of the great one, and let it fall with a
loud rap.  Then he waited; but there was no response, and again he
knocked, again and yet again, waxing bolder with increasing anxiety, but
always in vain.  And after what seemed to him a great length of time--in
reality a quarter of an hour or so--spent in that dreary waiting, he had
at last to make up his mind to the fact, there was no one there--the
house was entirely deserted!  His first feeling was one of the bitterest
disappointment; he could have sat down on the rough bit of pavement
before the doors and burst into tears!  He had felt so sure of finding
them.  His nature, hopeful like his mother's, did not prepare him for
obstacles, and all through his journey he had been picturing to himself
his arrival just in the nick of time to relieve the Countess's anxiety,
and arrange for safely escorting her and her daughter through every
danger to Valmont!  But with a few minutes' reflections came other
feelings besides disappointment.  Where were they?  A shudder ran
through Pierre as he thought where but too probably they were; probably
enough in one or other of the prisons, crowded with many as gentle, as
high-bred and delicate as they; possibly--for even children of Edmee's
age had not been spared--possibly no longer alive; those innocent heads
might already have fallen under the cruel guillotine!  And the boy felt
sick with fear and horror.  But still it was also possible that they had
escaped.  The Countess had foreseen the danger, and spoken of plans for
safety.  She might, it was even very likely that it was so, have carried
them out, and be at this, moment in hiding and disguise somewhere, near
perhaps, in this great city of Paris!

"Pierre's hope revived, but he looked up and down the deserted street in
bewilderment.  What could he do? whom could he ask? whither could he go?
Just then a door on the opposite side opened cautiously, and a very
dirty old woman poked out her head, looked this way and that, and then
emerged with a bucketful of rubbish--cabbage stalks, egg-shells, and the
like--which she emptied at the side of the gutter.  She had not seen
Pierre, who was somewhat in shadow, but he saw her, and darted forward.

"`Good morning, Mad--Citizeness,' he said quickly.  `Can you by chance
tell me whose house that is opposite,' and he pointed to the door where
he had been knocking.  `I was sent there, but it was a fool's errand, I
think.  No one will open.'

"`No wonder!' said the hag, glancing at him suspiciously, but taking him
for some countrified lad new to Paris, as indeed he was.  `No wonder!--
there's no one there.  Ah no, indeed, my lord the marquis will never
come lashing his horses out of his courtyard again,' and she gave a
shrill laugh, `nor will my fine lady the sour-faced Marquise come
driving by in her chariot.  We've got it to ourself now!  The grand
hotels are to be had for low rents in this street,' and she turned to go
in again.  But Pierre, in his eagerness, caught her by the skirt, dirty
as it was.

"`But where are the others then?' he said.  `There were other ladies
there--not proud, or sour-faced either.  You must have seen them if you
lived here.'

"`They're all gone, I tell you!  Seen them?  Yes, I daresay I did when I
came every day for the rubbish those wasteful servants threw about.  But
it's our turn now--my son's and mine; we've got a fine hotel all to
ourselves, you see!  Yes, they're all gone--here and there too.  Madame
Guillotine will tell you; she's the only Madame now!'

"`Are they all _dead_?' said Pierre, in a voice he would hardly have
known for his own, and which struck even the half-crazed old hag with a
sort of pity.

"`How should I know?' she said.  `And what does it matter?  You're no
aristocrat--why should you care?  Stay!  I heard tell--what was it then?
They let the little lady go--that was it, I think.  A nice little lady
too, if she hadn't been one of the cursed breed.  Many's the silver
piece she's given me as she passed.  What was she to you that you should
look so, boy?  Foster-sister, may be?'

"Pierre nodded.  He could not speak.

"`They let her go--or she wasn't to be found.  That was it.  You'll find
_her_ may be.  They said Marguerite had a hand in it--do you know
Marguerite?  She lives with the Citizeness.  Nay, I forget her name, but
you may hear of her at the wine-shop at the corner of the Rue de
Poitiers.  She can tell you more than I, if she will,' and with these
words the old woman hurried off more quickly than one could have thought
she could move, and drew to the door sharply, in Pierre's face.

"He walked slowly down the street, stunned and dazed by what he had
heard.  He had known it might be so; he had heard plenty of the horrors
taking place in this very Paris where he stood.  But it had not come
home to him till now, and he felt as if he could not believe it.  Even
to think of the Marquis and his wife coming to such an end--people he
had known, whose faces he could remember--made him shiver; but for his
own ladies!  No, he could not believe it.  `No one--not the
hardest-hearted--could look in the Countess's face and not see how
gentle and good she was!  And Mademoiselle Edmee, if it were true that
they had taken her mother, she would have died of grief.  No--I shall
hope still!' he said."

CHAPTER TEN.

"Pierre had wandered down the whole length of the Rue de Lille before he
quite came to himself, and then he started to see how far he had come.
He had crossed two or three side streets without noticing their names.

"`I may have passed the Rue de Poitiers,' he said to himself, `where she
said the wine-shop was,' and he looked about him anxiously.  A few steps
further brought him out of the quiet Rue de Lille into a wider
thoroughfare, the noise of which had already begun to reach him.  Here
there was life and movement enough--of a kind.  Groups stood about
talking, noisily laughing; some few passers-by, looking more serious, as
if on their way to or from their daily work, were stopped and jeered at,
and in some cases seemed to have difficulty in getting away.

"`Stay five minutes--they are coming this way--hark! you can hear them
already,' Pierre heard said in a group of blouses to one of their
fellows, who evidently wanted to get off.

"`My wife's ill,' he said, `and the noise frightens her when she hears
them pass.  Let me go, good friends; I would stay, and gladly, but for
that.'

"They let him go with a muttered oath.  The man's face was pale, and
belied his words.  Indeed, on many faces Pierre learnt to recognise the
traces of misery and deadly fear, though these very ones sometimes
laughed and shouted the loudest.  But his attention was now caught by a
strange sound coming nearer and nearer--a distant roar it had seemed at
first, but by degrees it grew into the shouting and yelling, hardly to
be called singing--though there was some tune and measure in it, and the
time was marked by the beating of small drums, the clashing and clanging
of tambourine;--of a multitude of human voices.

"`What is it?' said Pierre, half-timidly, to a boy a year or two younger
than himself, who stood near.  `Is it a procession?'

"The boy looked at him curiously.  But his face was thin and pale; he
did not look as if he had come in for many of the good things to be had
for the asking.

"`A procession!' he repeated, but in a low voice; `mind what you say.'
For the word is associated in France with religious observances.  `It is
the Carmagnole--the dance of rejoicing.  Stay, you will see for
yourself; you must be a new-comer never to have seen it before.'

"Many and many a time in his after-life, as he has often told me, did
Pierre Germain wish he had never seen that horrid sight at all.  It used
to haunt him, strong and practical as he was, like a hideous nightmare.
There they came--a band of men and women, or beings that had been such,
though looking more like demons.  Some were half-naked, with scarfs and
ribbons, generally of flaming red, flying from them; some in the most
absurd and grotesque costumes that could be imagined: the women with
long hair streaming, the men daubed crimson with paint or what looked
like worse, some brandishing sticks and clubs, some waving scarlet
flags--all leaping and dancing with a sort of monotonous rhythm,
sometimes closing in together, sometimes stretching out with joined
hands in enormous wheels, all yelling and shouting, with yet a tune or
refrain that went in time to their steps, and somehow seemed to make the
whole more horrible.

"`Are they mad?' said Pierre, leaning back against the wall with
unutterable loathing.  The pale-faced boy was still beside him, for to
proceed on one's way till the hideous crowd had passed was impossible.

"`Hush! hush!' said the boy in a tone of real terror.  `Mad?  Yes,
indeed they are--mad with blood!  Oh, I would not have risked coming out
had I known I would meet them again,' and he reeled as if he were going
to faint.  Pierre caught him by the arm; something in the boy's air and
tone seemed at variance with his shabby clothes.

"`Can I do nothing for you?' said Pierre.  `You seem so weak.  Will you
take my arm?'

"But the boy seemed better again, and as the crowd began to disperse a
little he was evidently in an agony to be gone.

"`No, no,' he said, `I have not far to go.  Take care of yourself,' he
added, and in an instant he had slipped away.

"Pierre stood for a moment, feeling almost as sick and faint as the poor
boy he had pitied.  Then afraid of attracting notice he crossed the
street, and went down the first quiet one he came to.  Here, after a
while, he passed some children playing about, whom he asked to direct
him to the Rue de Poitiers.  It happened to be very near, and in another
moment he found himself again at a corner of the Rue de Lille.  Here
stood a wine-shop, sure enough.  It must be here that Marguerite Ribou
was to be heard of.

"But his courage, or presence of mind rather, had begun to fail him a
little.  He had met with such disappointment, and was confused and
shocked by what he had seen and heard, and by the constant warnings to
`beware' of he scarcely knew what.  It was evident that his countrified
air and anxious face made him remarked, and though he had no fear for
himself, he felt more than ever that all chance of finding and rescuing
Edmee or her mother hung on him alone.  He was faint and hungry too--he
had had nothing for many hours but his cup of coffee and bread--and he
felt as if even the fumes of the wine, for he distinguished several
blouses drinking inside, would mount to his head, and make him feel
still more confused, and he hung about irresolutely, even while
conscious that his doing so might attract attention.  Happily for him,
before any one inside had noticed him, a servant-maid with a basket on
her arm came out of the shop and passed down the street.  Pierre
followed her quickly.

"`Pardon,' said he, lifting his cap--a vague idea had struck him that
this perhaps might be the Marguerite he was in search of, but one glance
at the girl's round rosy face told him he was wrong; `is there anywhere
near here I can get anything to eat at?'

"`Follow me,' said the girl, who seemed a matter-of-fact person, `there
is an eating-house round the corner.'

"`Do you live there?' said Pierre, glancing back to the wine-shop.

"`To be sure.  I am the servant.'

"`Do you know any one called Marguerite, who comes there sometimes?'

"The girl shook her head.

"`She comes no more,' she said.  `She and the mistress, the Citizeness
Victorine, had words one day, and since then she comes no more.'

"`Do you know where she is now?'

"Again the stolid young person shook her head.

"`It is somewhere over by the church of Notre Dame--a good way from
here.  But I cannot tell you where,' said the girl.  `It is possible
that the Citizeness Victorine may know, and would tell you if she were
in a good temper.'

"But Pierre, feeling sure that the Victorine she spoke of was none other
than his old enemy of the same name, was unutterably thankful to have
avoided coming across her, so in his turn he shook his head.

"`It would not be worth while to derange the Citizeness, a mere
inquiry,' he said vaguely, and then having arrived within sight of the
modest restaurant, he thanked the girl, and entering, asked for the food
he was much in need of.

"His spirits rose a little when he was no longer faint and hungry.  He
determined to go in the direction the girl had mentioned, with a vague
hope of somehow or other coming upon some trace, for in his inexperience
he did not realise the difficulty and improbability of doing so.  He
spent the whole of the day in wandering about, seeing and hearing many
strange and startling things, doing his utmost to hide his impressions,
for fear of attracting notice.  But when night fell, and he could wander
about no more he took refuge in a little room he had managed to find in
the house of a poor washerwoman, who let it to him cheaply, on the
condition of his paying a week in advance, and then poor Pierre,
completely disheartened, beginning to doubt if after all he had done
right in coming off as he had done, threw himself upon the little bed
and burst into tears.

"The history of that day was very much the history of many that
followed.  At the wine-shop of the Rue de Poitiers, they would not or
could not direct him to Marguerite Ribou, and Pierre wandered about,
glancing in every face he passed in the hopes of seeing some one who
might help him in his quest, though rarely, very rarely, venturing to
make any inquiry.  He forced himself to frequent places that were
abhorrent to him; many an hour he hung about the streets through which
would, as he came to know, pass the fearful `tumbrils,' as they were
called--the heavy waggons crowded every day with the victims for the
guillotine.  Never in after-life did he forget the faces he saw--on this
ghastly journey to death; some strong in despair, some fainting and
unconscious as if already dead, a few, but very few, shrieking wildly
for mercy to their brutal keepers--others, many even, with looks of
sweet resignation and noble courage, to whom the guillotine was indeed
but the gate of Heaven.  Put among them all, never did he perceive the
pale, beautiful features of the Countess of Valmont, nor, though
youthful boys and girls, little children even, were often among the
condemned, did he ever catch sight of Edmee's fair head and blue eyes,
which he felt sure he would have known among a thousand.  Some few times
he forced himself to make one of the crowd in the dreadful Place de la
Republique, where the guillotine stood: but he grew too sick with horror
to repeat often his search there, feeling, too, how awful would have
been his success!  He learnt to know all the principal prisons, and the
doors at which came out both the condemned and the appallingly small
number of the released.  But in vain--always, always in vain, till his
hope began to die out, and his sad and wistful eyes told their own tale,
had any one cared to read it.  His money, too, was running low; he saw
no possibility of gaining any; he felt that his days in Paris were
numbered, and that he must return to Valmont having failed.  But for his
poor father and mother, he felt that he would rather die than do so.

"At last came the first ray of hope.  One evening, in a sort of old
curiosity shop, not far from the neighbourhood where he had been told to
look for Marguerite Ribou, he fancied he caught sight, as he passed, of
a picture resembling the well-remembered portrait of the baby Edmee.  It
was some little way back in the shop, and the owner was just closing for
the night, so he could see no more.  But with the first of the morning
he was back again, waiting till the window was opened, and the contents
exposed to view.  It was a quiet street, and there were few people
about.  What were his feelings when, able at last to press his face
against the glass and peer into the shop, he saw that his glance the
night before had not deceived him!  It was indeed the well-known
portrait of his little lady.  This time Pierre threw caution to the
winds: he entered the shop boldly, and walking up to the picture, asked
the old man behind the counter, just preparing to enjoy his early
breakfast of a bowl of soup, if he could tell him from whence it had
come.  The shopman's first glance of suspicion--everybody in Paris
looked at everybody else with suspicion, it seemed to simple Pierre--
fell before the boy's earnest and straightforward manner.

"`Yes,' he said, `if you have any particular reason for wanting to
know.'

"`I have the best of reasons,' said Pierre.  `It belongs--it belonged to
the friends I owe most to in the world, and if they were not in great
trouble, it would not be here.'

"`You are right,' said the old man.  `Many people to whom trouble is new
are having a sharp taste of it now.  I do not take any part in these
things.  I live as I have always done, and for my business it is a good
time just now.  You would wonder at the objects of value I have bought
for almost nothing.  It is not my fault.  I cannot give more.  And it
will only be afterwards that I shall reap my benefit; when things
recover themselves I daresay many will be glad to buy back at a profit
the things I have.  I should be glad to do the owners a good turn if I
can, so I label the things carefully, and when I cannot get the real
name I distinguish them somehow.'

"`And thus,' said Pierre, beside himself with impatience, `you can tell
me where this came from?'

"`Yes,' said the old man, `for you seem honest and trustworthy.  It came
from some people living in the first street round the corner there,' and
he pointed through the window, `the first street to the right.  I do not
know their name, but they have been there some time, and are, no doubt,
as you say, in great trouble.  I have several things of theirs--I mark
them all with the name of the street and the number.'

"`What is it?' asked Pierre breathlessly.

"`Nine, number nine,' said the man, and scarcely waiting to thank him,
young Germain, in a bewilderment of feeling, such as he had never known,
rushed out of the shop and in the direction pointed out.

"It was a poor place, and it was not till he had knocked at several
doors, and repeated several times the description of what he wanted--a
lady--a citizeness, he was obliged to say--with her young daughter, a
young girl with fair hair and blue eyes, that he was at last directed to
the right rooms.  Up at the very top of the house they were--rooms that
would be dreary even to those who had never known any better: what must
they have been to the Countess and her child?  Pierre's tremulous knock
was twice repeated before it was responded to.  Then the door was
opened, hesitatingly and unwillingly, by a boy.  At first Pierre's heart
sank with new disappointment; then, looking again, fresh perplexity
seized him--it was the boy, though still paler and thinner, the same boy
he had met in the crowd that first day in Paris.  And as he stared at
him a new idea struck him like a revelation.

"`I am not mistaken,' he said suddenly; `they must be here.  You are--
are you not?--you are Edmond de Sarinet?' though, strangely enough,
through all his search, the remembrance of his childish enemy, the
thought of him as perhaps with his aunt and cousin, had never before
occurred to him.

"The boy drew himself up haughtily; thin and miserable as he looked,
there would have been something ludicrous in his manner had it not been
so piteous.

"`And what if I am?' he was beginning, when he was suddenly pushed
aside.  A girl, as tall as he, nearly, and far stronger and healthier in
appearance, though her face was pale, and her eyes swollen with much
crying, her flaxen hair tossed back over her shoulders, as if she had
not had the time or the heart to arrange it, came flying forward, and in
another instant her arms were round Pierre's neck, her fair face pressed
against his sturdy shoulders as he bent to meet her.

"`Oh, Pierrot! my own good Pierrot!' she cried, though her voice shook
with sobs, `you have come at last.  I knew your voice at once.  Oh,
Pierrot, pity your poor Edmee!--Mamma is dying!  But come, come,' she
went on, dragging him forward before he had time to utter a word of the
sorrow and sympathy which were choking him; `she will know you still--
she will speak to you.  It will make the leaving me less hard; she has
prayed so, that God has answered at last.  Come, Pierre, and comfort
her.'

"And before he could take in that he had really found them, feeling as
if he were dreaming, Pierre Germain was standing in a small and
poorly-furnished room, where the evident efforts to make it as
comfortable as possible but made its bareness more touching--standing
beside a bed, on which, whiter than the pillows that supported her, lay
his dearly-loved lady, the sweet and gentle Countess of Valmont!

"`That I should have found you _thus_!' were the first words he uttered,
while the tears ran down his sunburnt cheeks.  `After my long search--
why has it come too late?'

"But the Countess checked his words.  With the beautiful calm of the
dying for whom death has no terrors she smiled up into his face.

"`Not too late,' she whispered; `in time--just in time, say rather, my
boy.  I think God has let me live for this.  I think I should have died
some days ago but for a strange hope that you would come.  You will take
her home to your mother, Pierre; she will love my Edmee as her own
child.  I cannot see into the future--I am too tired to think.  But she
will be safe with you, safer than anywhere else.  O God, I thank Thee!'

"Her words were scarcely audible--she had to stop between every two or
three.  She did not seem surprised to see Pierre, nor did she ask why he
did not come before.  Her spirit was already on the wing, only, as it
were, recalled, or held back, by her great mother-love.  And not for
Edmee alone.  After a pause, during which Pierre, kneeling beside her,
murmured, amidst his sobs, his most solemn promises to devote his life,
his strength, his everything to the girl so soon to be orphan and
alone--promises which seemed to increase the soft peace on the dying
face--she glanced round as if seeking some one.

"`Edmond, my poor Edmond!' she whispered; `him too--you will be kind to
him too, Pierre?'

"`God helping me, I will,' said Pierre.

"`Where are you, Edmond?  Give me your hand,' she said.

"The poor boy came from behind the thin curtain of the bed, where he had
hidden.

"`Take me with you, auntie--little aunt, who has been my only true
mother!' he said, in an agony of tears.  `No one will care for me now.
I am not strong enough to protect Edmee as I fain would, and she will
not want me.  Oh, cannot you ask God to take me too--weak and useless
that I am?'

"Even in the extremity of her own grief Edmee's generous heart was
touched.  She drew Edmond round to where she and Pierre were kneeling,
and threw her arm round his thin shoulders.

"`_I_ love you, my poor Edmond.  I will always love you, and we will all
take care of you.'

"He yielded to her, but he said nothing.  But the Countess caught what
Edmee said, and smiled again.

"`Thank God!' she said.  They were her last words, and what could have
shown her more fit for Heaven?  Thanking God through all--through the
dark and bitter days that had befallen, through sunshine and through
storm--thanking Him now with her latest breath for the ray of comfort
that had come at the last, though so long deferred that hope had
well-nigh fled.

"She died that afternoon.  All through the long, sad hours of that
strange day the three young creatures watched beside her, not knowing,
in their inexperience, the exact moment at which the gentle spirit
fled--not till the Sister of Charity, who, in disguise, like many others
all through those awful months, still went about ministering to the sick
and dying--not till Sister Angelique tapped softly at the door, and
entering, saw in a moment the sad truth, did they understand that the
mother and friend was no longer there--only the garment she had worn.

"`I would have come sooner, but I was even more wanted elsewhere; there
was nothing to be done here.  The doctor saw her yesterday,' she said to
Pierre, when it was explained to her who he was.

"`And the kind priest,' sobbed Edmee; `he will come again, dear Sister,
will he not?  No one knows he is a priest,' she said to Pierre.  `He has
to dress like a workman.'

"Angelique stayed a while and did what she could.  There was a little, a
very little money remaining, and Pierre drew out the remains of his.
Edmee had been obliged to sell everything they had brought away in their
flight from the Rue de Lille.  `My portrait was the last to go,' she
said, `but my darling did not know it.  And as it brought us _you_,
Pierre, we must not regret it.  Some day we may buy it back again,' and
by degrees she related to him all the details of the last few weeks.
How the Marquis and Marquise had been taken very soon after Ludovic had
left, how but for a warning from Marguerite Ribou she, her mother, and
Edmond would infallibly have perished as _they_ did.

"`They were not long in prison,' she said.  `Marguerite told us the day
they were guillotined.  My uncle died like a gentleman, and at the last
the Marquise seemed to find courage too.  They must have repented of
much in those last days I think.  See! this is what my poor uncle sent
us secretly,' and she held out a soiled scrap of paper, on which were
written the two words `Forgive me!'  `Ah,' continued Edmee, who--such is
the education of sorrow--at fourteen spoke like a woman, `I cannot
murmur that _she_ is gone when I think of her gentle death, and what it
might have been.  Marguerite had not wished to save Edmond,' she went on
after a pause.  `She is very angry, even now, whenever she sees him.  I
think her brain is a little gone.  But she has been most faithful to
_us_.  It was that dreadful Victorine that caused it.  She kept
persuading my aunt there was no danger, and thus delayed their escaping
till she had completed her own plans.  She must have robbed them
fearfully.'

"Pierre let Edmee talk.  She was too excited to remain quiet.  He
listened without saying much, though his mind was terribly full.  How
were they to accomplish the journey to Valmont?  Penniless to begin
with, and almost afraid to spend money if they had had it!  How could
Edmee ever make the journey on foot, and almost worst, Edmond, of whom
Pierre had never thought?  His presence, too, made the risk greater,
for, as his father's son, there must be many to hate him, and
notwithstanding his pity for the boy, Pierre foresaw trouble.  Edmond
had scarcely spoken to him, and even through his misery there flashed
out sparks of his old ill-feeling.

"There came again a knock at the door.

"`It must be our kind priest,' said Edmee.

"Pierre started up joyfully, `Let me speak to him,' he said.  And in his
heart he added, `Here will be some one to give me counsel.'"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"Pierre opened the door, but in an instant he saw it was not the priest.
A woman in dark clothing, her face half concealed by a veil or
handkerchief of some kind, which she had muffled round her head, stood
before him.  She was coming forward as if to enter without speaking,
when, glancing upwards, she perceived that he was not, as she had
imagined, Edmond.  She fell back startled, but instantly recovering
herself.

"`Who may you be, citizen?' she said, in a hard, cold tone, which had
little gentleness in it, and then she added in a lower voice, `Mind you,
if you are another aristocrat in disguise, come to take refuge here, I
will have nothing to do with you.  I have enough on my hands, and so
have they,' nodding towards the door, where the poor dead lady was
lying, `in there.'

"Pierre looked at her quietly.

"`I am Pierre Germain,' he said.  `I have seen you once before,
Marguerite Ribou.'

"The girl, or woman rather, for she had grown tall, and was finely
proportioned, threw back her veil.  Her beautiful dark face grew deathly
pale, and she staggered back against the wall.

"`Forgive me!' she said; `I have never forgotten you, though there are
times my poor brain aches with remembering,' and she passed her hand
across her forehead with a gesture that reminded Pierre of what Edmee
had said of her.  `All is wrong,' continued Marguerite; `there is no
right, no good anywhere!  But I waste precious moments.  It is well you
have come, for it is only just in time--they must fly; well or ill, they
must fly at once.  Tell me, how is the Countess?'

"`She is dead,' replied Pierre simply.

"One or two large tears gathered in the girl's eyes, and slowly rolled
down her face.  But all she said was, `It is well.'

"Then Pierre stepped back to let her pass in.

"`You will see Mademoiselle?' he said.

"Marguerite hesitated.

"`It is as I said!' she exclaimed hurriedly.  `She must start at
once--_at once_, I say--if she would not share the fate of her uncle and
aunt!'

"`How can we persuade her to leave _her_--the Countess!' said Pierre, in
despair.

"`Better leave her dead than dying,' said Marguerite, and though the
words were almost coarse, the intense earnestness of the tone made them
not seem so.  Just then a step made both Pierre and the girl look round.
It was Edmee.  Pale almost as her dead mother, she came forward.

"`I have heard,' she said.  `I opened the door to see who it was.
Marguerite, I trust you--_she_ did.  Is it really as bad as you say?  Is
the danger so near?'

"`Near!' repeated Marguerite; `it is _here_!  I came to do what I could,
though with but small hopes of seeing you.  It is Victorine; she has not
rested till she found where you were, and now it is only a question of a
few hours.'

"`I will be ready,' said Edmee, to the great surprise of both her
hearers.  `When you tell me to go, Marguerite, I will go.  I have no
right to risk Pierre's life; he has risked it for me--that was his own
doing.  And I know he would not go without me.  Besides, I promised--I
promised my darling; she seemed to have known it would come so, and she
made me promise to go, even if I could not stay to see her laid in the
grave.  Living, I could never have left her.  Oh, Pierrot, it is hard!'
she went on, turning to him, and clasping her hands, while the tears ran
down her face again, `must we already say we are glad she is dead?'

"Pierre could not answer, but Marguerite did so for him.

"`Yes, my poor child, it is so.  You _must_ say it and feel it.'

"Her voice seemed to recall Edmee's thoughts.

"`There is one thing,' she said, looking now at Marguerite.  `You
understand--I will not go without Edmond.'

"`Then,' said the girl, in a sudden burst of passion, `you may stay, for
all I will do to save you.  Child, you are mad!  But you, you, Pierre
Germain, you should have influence with her.  Tell her she is mad.'

"`No, Marguerite,' said Pierre, `we cannot desert him.  If Edmee could
be saved without my help, I would gladly stay with him and entreat her
to go.  But she cannot go alone.  And I, too, promised to protect the
poor boy.'

"`Then you are both mad!' said Marguerite, and she burst away as she
spoke.  But Pierre was too quick for her.  He caught her before she had
reached the stair.

"`Marguerite,' he said, `you thanked me once for my pity, and the very
little I was able to do for you in your sorrow.  You said you would
never forget it.  I too have never forgotten your wrongs and sorrows.  I
have no reason to risk danger for that boy's sake--I have no love for
him.  But I have promised--and besides, how cowardly would it be to
desert a creature so weak and helpless!  Marguerite, you will not fail
us?--for your dead brother Louis's sake be generous, and return good for
evil.'

"A stifled groan from the girl when he named her brother was the only
sound for a moment.  Then she turned again.

"`For _his_ sake!--a strange revenge,' she muttered.  Then she said
aloud, though speaking softly--

"`Be ready then--all three of you.  In two hours I will be back.  But
you have made it much more difficult for me, and for yourselves,' and
with these words she was gone.

"Pierre hastened to tell Edmee that she had given in, and together they
set to work to arrange the few, terribly few things belonging to the
Countess and her daughter, so that they would be ready to carry away.
Edmond seemed dazed and stupid.  His cousin had to pack for him too; he
would scarcely speak, and seemed indifferent to everything.  Pierre
dared not leave Edmee alone, and yet he was anxious to go back to pay
his poor landlady a little sum he owed her, and to collect his own
little bundle.  It was a dreadful afternoon.  Every sound on the stairs
made Edmee start and shiver with horror, and yet every time she glanced
at the still, cold form on the bed, her heart seemed to burst with fresh
agony at the thought of deserting all that was left her of her mother.

"The thankfulness of both Pierre and the young girl was great when, an
hour after Marguerite had left, Sister Angelique returned with the
priest in disguise.  They had already made arrangements for the burial
of the Countess.  It was to be in the night, so that in secret, with the
help of one or two he could trust, the good priest would be able to read
the service for the dead.  He did not tell--and not till long afterwards
did Edmee know--that for the necessary expense he had parted with his
watch, the last remains of his happier days!  Pierre hurried to his
lodgings, whence he returned only just in time, for Marguerite was
already waiting.  She had brought a gown of her own, which she had
shortened for Edmee, and made Pierre dress Edmond in the suit he had in
his bundle, replacing it by that which young de Sarinet had hitherto
worn.  He submitted, but in silence, and with no word of thanks.  Pierre
thought him merely dazed and stupid with sorrow, but Marguerite darted
angry looks at him with her dark eyes.

"`You will wish you had taken my advice about him before you get to the
end of your journey,' she muttered to Pierre.

"Then she gave them directions.  They were to start at once, walking
quietly through the town till they came to a little wine-shop in a
street which she clearly described to them.

"`There you must ask for the Citizeness Dupuis,' she said.  `She is a
short stout woman.  She will say little to you, but you may trust her.
She will give you a good dinner in the room behind the shop, and there
you must stay till I come.  Pay no attention to anything you see or
hear--be deaf and dumb.  I will bring your things with me, and what you
cannot carry away will be kept for you till I can send it to Valmont.'

"In the same dry, hard manner she stood by while Edmee, in a passion of
grief, threw herself on the bed where lay her mother, and kissed for the
last time the soft white face already cold with the iciness of death.
Sister Angelique had drawn Edmond aside, and was whispering good advice
to him, which he seemed to receive more meekly than might have been
expected; but even she, trained as she was to Self-control through the
most painful scenes, broke down when Edmee at last tore herself away
from the Countess's room, and sobbed her farewell in the kind Sister's
arms.

"`Good-bye, my child.  The good Father and I will do all we can--trust
us.  In more peaceful days you may be able to visit her grave.  God
bless you, my sweet child, and take comfort in the thought that to-day's
sorrow might have come in a more terrible form.'

"`I know, I know,' said Edmee.  `I am ready now, Marguerite.  Poor
Marguerite!' she added, almost caressingly; `how good you are!  I want
to be resigned, but you can understand how hard it is.'

"But Pierre, who was standing close to her, heard the girl mutter under
her breath, `No, I understand nothing.  I have no heart, no feelings any
more, thank God.'

"The boy shuddered, but intense pity softened his horror at her words.
`She knows not what she says,' he thought.  `Her actions show how good
and generous a heart she had.'

"Marguerite accompanied them only to the door, and then repeated her
directions.

"`Speak to each other in an ordinary way as you go along,' she said.
`You must hide your grief till there is no one to remark you.  Speak to
her of Valmont, of country things, Pierre; it is best for you to speak
with your country accent,' though, to tell the truth, he had but little,
for in Touraine, as you know, the pronunciation, even of the peasants,
is unusually good.

"They reached the place indicated without difficulty, and on saying they
were there to wait for the Citizeness Marguerite, the short stout woman
at once led them into a little back parlour, where she served them a
good meal.  Poor things! they were very hungry by this time, and it was
a better dinner than any of the three had tasted for many days.  (Often
has my mother told me how strangely shocked she was at herself for being
so hungry--in such circumstances).

"Edmond remained silent, and took no notice of Pierre's little overtures
of friendliness, so young Germain ended by leaving him alone.  It grew
very dreary after their dinner--they had nothing to do, and for, no
doubt, a good reason, the Citizeness Dupuis left them without a light.
As it grew darker, several men in blouses, and a few women, strolled
into the shop, which at first had been empty, and Edmee began to
understand Marguerite's warning.  For such snatches of talk as came to
them were far from reassuring, and as the evening went on and more wine
was drunk, the loud laughing, the coarse jokes about `Madame
Guillotine,' and the good work she had done lately, the threats of what
was yet to be done, grew so terrible, that more than once Edmee put her
fingers in her ears.  But she had to take them out again to sooth
Edmond, who became wildly excited, at one moment declaring he would
burst into the shop and tell the wretched hounds what he thought of
them, and who _he_ was, with a touch of his old braggadocio; and next,
bursting into tears, and saying it was all a trick, Marguerite had
decoyed them there to betray them, and as soon as she came would herself
give them up to their enemies.  Pierre _could_ not think her capable of
such hideous treachery, but still his mind misgave him somewhat, and
when at last Marguerite herself came in by another door from that by
which they had entered, he had been on the point of suggesting to Edmee
to take flight and trust to themselves.

"`What is the matter?' said the girl, when she had lighted a small taper
and saw the state that Edmond was in.

"Edmee and Pierre explained to her.

"`Well, did I not warn you?' she said.  `Though I own I did not think it
would have been so noisy to-night, and I had hoped to be here sooner.
It will do that fool no harm, all the same,' she added, and when Edmond,
wild with fury, started up as if to strike her, she calmly seized his
two arms and held them tightly behind his back, with a sort of
contemptuous pity in her face, for she was very strong, twice as strong
as poor thin Edmond.

"`No, you shall not strike me, little Sarinet,' she said, and as if
moved by a spirit of contradiction, `I will save you in spite of
yourself, you foolish boy.'

"Then in a stern, grave whisper she told them to come with her, and
without waiting to say good-bye to the Citizeness Dupuis, who I daresay
was not sorry to find them gone, she led them out by the way she had
entered.

"In silence for some length of time the two boys followed their strange
guide, who had made Edmee take her arm, she herself carrying the bag
containing all of her small possessions that the last of the Valmonts
had ventured to bring away.  Marguerite chose the darkest and narrowest
streets, but she seemed to know her way with wonderful cleverness,
considering she was not a Parisian by birth or breeding.  At last she
stopped.

"`I can go no further,' she said.  `If I stay so late my friends will
wonder what I am doing.  In ten minutes, taking the first road to your
left, you will arrive at the barriers.  I know the sergeant who at this
hour will probably be there.  Show him these papers; you will have no
trouble.  Pierre must speak.  Tell him you mean to spend the night just
outside the town, that you may be ready for a friend who is going your
way in the morning, and ask him the nearest way to Choisy-le-roi.  He
will offer to send some one with you, as if out of good nature.  Accept
his offer.  You may trust your guide, but you need not speak to him.  He
will take you to the cottage where you will spend the night.  Start with
the earliest dawn, and get as far as you can on your way before night.
Do not hesitate to take any chance of getting on quicker, either in the
public carriages if you meet them, or in any passing cart.  The great
thing is to get away far from Paris as fast as possible.'

"`But,' said Pierre, `we have no choice, my good Marguerite.  We have no
money.'

"`I was coming to that,' she said.  `Here is more than enough for your
journey in the only way in which you will dare to travel.  I could give
you more, but it would only expose you to danger.'

"`But we cannot take _your_ money, Marguerite,' said Pierre.  `At least
only as a loan.'

"`And also,' began Edmee, and then she hesitated.

"`I know,' said the girl; `it is what the Countess said.  She would
rather have starved than take money from me, because she thought it ill
come by.  But this you can take without scruple.'  She turned slightly
aside, so that only Pierre and Edmee could hear her.  `The Hotel de
Sarinet was sacked last week; yesterday they threw me for my share some
of _his_ mother's jewels.  I sold some; the rest I will pack among your
things.  _I_ would not touch them.  Now,' she went on, `this is all I
can do.  You must now trust to your own sense and courage.  It is only
_he_,' and she nodded towards Edmond, standing apart, `who may get you
into trouble, as he nearly did to-night, mistrusting me for having
brought you there--the safest place for you this evening, because the
last they would have looked for you in!  Now farewell.'

"`Farewell, Marguerite, and God bless you!' said Pierre and Edmee
together, and the latter added, `If you would but have come with us, as
my mother begged you.'

"But Marguerite shook her head.

"`There will always be a home for you at Valmont,' added Edmee, `and we
will always pray for you, dear Marguerite.'

"`Ah,' said the poor girl, `you may do that.  Your prayers may be heard;
_mine_ have never been answered.'

"And with these words she turned away, and was lost to sight.

"At first all happened as their protectress had said.  The sergeant at
the gates let them pass with some rough good-natured words loudly
spoken, as if he never supposed them to be other than their papers and
Pierre's explanation represented them to be--two peasant lads and their
sister making their way back to their friends in the country, as many of
the better class poor, getting shocked at the state of things in Paris,
were glad to do at that time.  And after directing them to
Choisy-le-roi, a second thought seemed to strike him.  `I can do more
than that,' he said.  `Here Jean, Choisy is your road.  Show these
little citizens the way,' and up started a man, young or old they could
not tell, for they never saw his face, which seemed muffled up, nor did
he speak all the way.  And they never knew who he was, nor for what
motive he had rendered them this service.

"At Choisy-le-roi they spent the night with the old woman who seemed to
be expecting them.  Before daybreak they were some miles further on
their way to Bretigny, the first stage, one might say, on the road home,
driven in a cart by a boy, the grandson of the old woman, and accustomed
to take her eggs into Paris for the market.  Some days of pretty steady
travelling followed; the weather was fine, fortunately, for had it not
been so, the poor children were but scantily protected; and Edmond kept
up better than they could have hoped.  Edmee herself, during those first
days, was scarcely conscious of fatigue, or even of anxiety.  She felt
as if in a dream, and constantly expected to wake and find herself again
in the wretched lodgings, beside her mother.  The thought of that
mother, of the terrible parting from all that was left of her, possessed
her to such an extent, that for herself she would have felt no fear,
hardly emotion of any kind had they been seized and carried back to
Paris.  Pierre was sometimes frightened by her very quietness; it was
unlike her to be so dreamy and silent, even in sorrow, and more than
once he endeavoured to rouse her by reminding her that she must not let
herself fall ill.  `We are obeying the dear Countess,' he said.  `Her
last thought was for you--the only comfort of those last moments was the
belief that you would yet be safe at Valmont.'

"`I know it was so,' said Edmee.  `Yes, Pierre, my kind Pierrot, you are
right.  I will try to wish what she did.'

"But before they had reached the longed-for end of their journey, danger
came so near them that all the girl's faculties were roused, and,
terrible as it was, she has sometimes said to me that she thought this
very experience saved her from falling into a sort of half-stupid,
almost idiotic state, from which she might never have recovered.  For
till now, there had been nothing to make them realise along what a
precipice-brink they were moving.  Once out of Paris, both Edmee and her
cousin had imagined themselves safe, and the girl had yielded to her
overpowering sorrow, the boy to his grief, not less sincere, but less
unselfish than hers.  But for wide-awake, practical Pierre what would
have become of them?

"It happened thus: it was, as Marguerite had foreseen, the fault of
Edmond.

"One evening--they had been travelling, sometimes on foot and sometimes
in a cart or in one of the public coaches, running short distances--they
would not of course have ventured to take places right through to Tours,
the nearest point to Valmont for the regular diligences--one evening
they reached a village not very far from Sarinet.  Pierre had judged it
wise to skirt Sarinet, both because Edmond might have been recognised,
and also out of pity for the boy, to spare his feelings as much as
possible, and as they were now in a part of the country he thoroughly
knew, he found it easy to make their way round at what he thought a safe
distance.  But they had had a long day's walk before they arrived weary
and foot-sore at a village where Pierre had decided to spend the night.
There was a small inn in the village--a while ago Pierre would have been
horrified at the idea of Edmee's entering such a place, but he had grown
used to the necessity of such things, and the young girl never by word
or glance murmured or seemed to notice the roughness and coarseness to
which she was for the first time exposed.  Pierre bespoke a bed for his
`sister,' and a corner of the barn for himself and Edmond, and then they
sat down in the rude kitchen to such a supper as could be provided for
them.  There were one or two peasants drinking in a corner, but quietly
enough, when suddenly the door was pushed roughly open, and a couple of
men in blouses came noisily in, shouting for something to drink.  The
innkeeper's wife, a timid, civil woman, hurried forward, but before she
had time to serve the new-comers, one of them came up to the fire-place,
near where the three young strangers were seated, and kicked the burning
logs with his foot.  Some embers flew out, and a spark or two lighted on
Edmee's dress, though she at once extinguished it.  But up started
Edmond.

"`Mind what you're about, fellow!' he cried, with the true Sarinet tone.

"The offender turned round and eyed him curiously, but without speaking
a word.  Then he kicked the logs again till more sparks flew out in all
directions.  Edmond was springing to his feet, but Pierre held him
forcibly back.  `Are you mad--quite mad?' he whispered in a low, stern
voice, while Edmee clasped his hand under the table with her trembling
ones.  The boy seemed startled into submission, and Pierre, rising from
his seat, went forward to the fire.

"`If you don't object, citizen,' he said good-humouredly, `I think I can
make it burn better without scorching your feet or my sister's dress,'
and he skilfully turned and arranged the logs till a bright glow
rewarded him.

"The man eyed Pierre with curiosity.

"`You are a handy fellow, and a civil one,' he said; `how come you in
company with such a young insolent as that one yonder?' and he jerked
his thumb towards Edmond.

"Pierre laughed, though his heart was beating so fast that he fancied it
must be heard.  But for knowing that Edmee was holding her cousin tight,
he dared not have risked that laugh or his words.

"`A spoilt child,' he said lightly.  `He was brought up in Paris; I and
our sister in the country.  Now we are on our way to Tours, and my
brother is tired.  We have had a long tramp.  You must excuse him,
citizen.'

"In his turn the man laughed, but the laugh had not a pleasant sound.

"`He is not worth chastising; it is easy to see _he_ is not
country-bred,' he said.  But Pierre, watching, saw him shoot an
expressive glance over to his companion, who was sitting still and had
taken no part in the discussion.  And Pierre's heart stood still with
horror, for to him the glance spoke terrible things.

"`And but for Edmond,' he reflected, `we might have passed unnoticed.
Marguerite was right.  Oh, my dear lady, I would have died for you and
Edmee, but it will be too hard to have her sacrificed for him!'"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"A few minutes later the two men went away.  They paid for the wine they
had drunk, but said nothing.  Pierre breathed more freely when they were
gone, and as both he and his two charges were very tired, they soon
after went to bed: that is to say, Edmee went to the room prepared for
her, and the boys made the best of their corner of the barn.  It was a
tumble-down old place, and there were several other out-buildings
adjoining it; a disused stable was at one end, separated from it only by
a wall which ran up as a partition, though leaving a space between its
top and the roof.  This Pierre happened to notice before he lay down.
He was asleep in five minutes, but after some time, how long he knew
not, he awoke with a start, something had wakened him, though he could
not remember what.  He lay perfectly still, and in a moment a sound from
the other side of the partition wall, of which I have spoken, caught his
ears.  It was that of men's voices, though speaking so softly that less
sharp ears than those of the forester's boy, trained to distinguish each
cry of the wood-creatures, each note of the birds, could have heard
nothing.

"`I tell you,' said one voice, `I am as sure as I can be.  I knew that
insolent tone at once, and when I looked I was certain.  The girl too--
though who the third is I cannot make out.  That baffled me.'

"`Then if you were so sure, why give yourself and me all this bother?'
grumbled the other.  `Why did you not at once seize them?  It would be
too bad to lose the reward after coming so far, and taking so much
trouble.'

"`I have told you why,' said the other, speaking more loudly as he got
angry.  `They might have been too much for us; there is no telling
whether they have not got friends in the village.  They are in their own
country now, and that Valmont lot set up to be benevolent, and all that
kind of thing.  No, I would not risk any scene; let us wait here quietly
and watch them off in the morning--we can see which way they go, and
easily take them when they are alone.  You have the order for the arrest
all right?'

"`Yes, but only for the two.'

"`Of course; we don't want the country lad, though, perhaps--' But here
the voice grew so low that Pierre, strain his ears as he would, could
hear no more, till he caught a half-surly `Good-night then' from the
second speaker, and all was silent, save the beating of the poor boy's
own heart, which sounded to him so unnaturally loud, that he felt as if
it could not but be heard through the partition.

"And all this time Edmond was sleeping soundly; it was too dark to see
him, but by listening close, Pierre heard his soft and regular
breathing.  What could he do? what _dared_ he do? or was it useless to
attempt anything? thought poor Pierre, till he began to fear the night
would pass in this sort of paralysis of terror.  At last his brain began
to recover itself a little.  He moved himself up into a sitting
position, trembling at every rustle in the hay, and at last, getting on
to his feet, having slipped off his shoes, he managed to creep out at
the door, without its creaking.  The fresh cold air did him good, and he
rapidly regained his presence of mind.  There would be no difficulty in
rousing Edmee, he hoped, for he knew her to be the lightest of sleepers,
and she was already uneasy from the events of the evening.  The little
room where she was, opened out of the kitchen where they had supped, and
by good chance the house door was only latched.  So far, all was easy,
and in five minutes the poor child, who had only partly undressed, was
standing shivering beside her young protector.  She took it all in, in
an instant.

"`Pierrot,' she said, `there is nothing to do; there is no chance of
escape for us.  There is only one thing to do, save yourself.  They may
mean to take you too, or to kill you at once,' and Edmee shuddered, `if
you make any defence.  Go, Pierre--go home to your father and mother,
you have no right to throw your life away uselessly.'

"But Pierre did not seem to hear her words.

"`Edmee,' he replied, `I can save _you_--we could start off at once, and
hide in the woods till they have lost all trace of us--we should be
hours in advance of them.  But oh, Edmee, it is Edmond!  And I
promised--I promised the Countess not to desert him.'

"`No,' said Edmee, determinedly, `we _cannot_ desert him.'

"They then consulted together--how to wake him without being heard by
the two men was the terrible question.  He was a heavy sleeper,
especially when tired, and from his delicate health and nervousness he
was always irritable if awakened before his sleep was completed.

"`He is sure, _certain_ to scream out crossly, and then all will be
over,' said Edmee, her teeth chattering with cold and terror.

"`Then there is only one thing to be done,' said Pierre.  `Have you your
bag ready, Edmee?'  The girl nodded as she held it up.  `You have
nothing left in the house?  That is right; my bundle and Edmond's are
just as they were--only we must leave some money to pay for our supper
and lodging.  Here, I will slip in and place it on the table.  Now we
must both creep back into the barn--you to help me in case of need.  I
have here a large, strong handkerchief; I will gag Edmond before he has
time to make a sound--he is so feeble it will be easily done; then if
you can take the baggage I will carry him on my back till we are well
out of hearing, and then explain all.'

"`He will struggle fearfully,' said Edmee.  `Perhaps--perhaps, Pierre,
if I whisper in his ear that it is we who are doing it to save him, he
will be quiet.'

"`_After_ he is gagged, if you like,' said Pierre; `but not before.  We
must run no risk; our lives hang on the thinnest of threads, Edmee.
Come, try not to tremble so--oh, my poor little lady, if I could have
spared you this!'

"Edmee hesitated.

"`Dear Pierrot,' she said, `I think perhaps if I were to say a little
prayer to the good God to help and save us, it would make me leave off
trembling so.'

"Pierre answered by uncovering his head, and then, at a sign from Edmee,
he knelt down beside her on the grass, for they had crept back behind
the house, and there the two young creatures prayed with earnest and
simple words for the help they so sorely needed--`or,' whispered Edmee,
`if we do not escape, for courage to bear whatever is before us.'

"Then she rose to her feet.

"`I am not trembling now,' she said.  `Pierrot dear, kiss me once before
we go; for we don't know, we may fail.'

"Pierrot kissed her; he could not have spoken had he tried.

"He led the way to the barn.  Pierre crept in first to reconnoitre; all
was quiet, and as he had left it, he reported, when he crept out again,
bringing his own and Edmond's bundles, which, with her bag, he and Edmee
carried a little way into the shelter of the wood hard by, so that the
girl's hands might be free, if need were, to help him with the much more
troublesome piece of baggage--Edmond.  Then they both made their way in
again, Edmee standing a little aside, while Pierre, by the very faint
moonlight which came in through the open doorway, satisfied himself as
to the exact position in which Edmond lay, before attempting to gag and
seize him.  How he succeeded he could never himself tell, but succeed he
did.  Before the sleeping boy had recovered his faculties sufficiently
to attempt to scream or to make any resistance, he was safe and fast in
Pierre's strong arms, his mouth so firmly gagged that, though he was
scarlet, nay purple, with rage and terror long before he found out the
real state of the case, not the faintest sound was audible, as, followed
by Edmee, young Germain, with his heavy burden, made his way from the
barn by the path behind the house, which they had already discovered led
into the woods.  More than once Edmee tried to whisper into Edmond's
ear, but blinded and confused as he was she could not catch his
attention.

"`Better wait awhile,' whispered Pierre, and it was not till after quite
a quarter of an hour of this painful progress that he at last stopped,
and, after listening in all directions, let Edmond slip to the ground,
though still firmly holding him.  The boy opened his eyes; he had half
lost consciousness, and Pierre began to loosen the handkerchief.

"`Edmond,' said Edmee, though still in a whisper, `it is we--Pierre and
I.  Don't you know us?'  But Edmond shivered convulsively, and it was
some minutes--minutes of most precious time--before Edmee and Pierre
together could get him to understand all that had passed.  Then he burst
into tears, blaming himself as the cause of the terrible risk they had
run, thanking them both for saving his life, and entreating their
forgiveness.  It was a great relief that his excitement had taken this
form,--Edmee had been secretly terrified that he would perhaps have
turned upon Pierre in a rage at him for having employed force, even to
save his life,--for it was easy to make him do whatever they wished.  He
soon recovered himself enough to get on to his feet, and with Pierre on
one side and Edmee on the other, to make his way deeper and deeper into
the recesses of the forest.  It was their best chance.  Pierre's
experience served as a guide, even though with these special woods he
was unacquainted, and he was able to direct their steps ever towards
Valmont, though plunging very much further into the forest than he
intended.  And for some days they did not venture to leave its friendly
shelter.  What did they live upon? you will ask, as I have often asked
my mother when she has been relating to me the history of these strange
days.  Very little, it seems to me.  Pierre managed, two or three times,
to get a loaf from one of the wood-cutters' cottages they passed at long
intervals, but which he never dared approach near, except by himself.
He used to hide his companions and then, whistling lightly, as if on an
ordinary journey of a few hours, would knock at the cottage door and ask
for some bread, as he was hungry and had some distance to go; but not
much of the bread fell to _his_ share, you may be sure.  Once or twice
he got a few eggs, which he cooked on a fire of dry wood, and which
Edmee thought delicious, for there is no sauce like hunger!  The nights
they spent, in part, in walking, when there was light enough to see
their way, for it was cold work lying on the beds of dead leaves they
collected, with the scanty spare clothing that was all their bundles
contained; and had the weather not been exceptionally fine, and even
mild for October, my mother has always maintained they would never have
got to Valmont alive.  It was that thought--the thought that they were
near their journey's end--that kept up their hearts through this, so
much the most painful part of the journey.  For even when so near home
that a few hours in a passing diligence would have safely landed them
within a league of Valmont, they dared not venture on the high road.

"It was a forlorn little group which at last, late one evening,--they
had purposely concealed themselves till late in the woods hard by, `our
own woods,' said Edmee and Pierre joyously, where to the boy every path,
every tree almost, had been familiar from infancy,--approached the
forester's cottage at the extreme end of the village.  They had not
ventured to pass along the main street, but made a round which brought
them in by the other side; for since their terrible fright Pierre had
grown doubly cautious.

"`They may have come here and be waiting to take them,' he thought,
though he did not say so to his two poor tired charges.  And even when
within a stone's throw of the cottage he made Edmee and her cousin wait
in a little copse while he went forward to reconnoitre.  And these few
minutes' waiting, my mother has often said, seemed to her the most
trying part of the whole journey.

"With what joy did she hear Pierre's footsteps in return, and his voice
exclaiming eagerly, `It is all right! come quickly.  Ah, here is my
mother behind me.'

"And so it was.  Poor Madame Germain had found it impossible to wait in
the cottage--here she was, crying and sobbing, and yet smiling through
her tears.

"`My children! my children! whom I had given up hoping ever to see
again!' she exclaimed, clasping Edmee to her arms, forgetful of
everything except that she had again her precious nursling, her little
lady, whose life she had so many years ago saved by her devotion!

"But to poor Edmee the loving clasp of those motherly arms brought an
agonising remembrance.

"`Dear, dear mamma Germain,' she said.  `Do you know--has Pierrot told
you all--about my sweet mother?'

"`I know--he told me.  Oh, my darling, how I grieve for you!  But she is
happy--and thank heaven her death was as it was.  And now she will
rejoice to see you safe--at last, my Edmee--after all your weary
journeying.  And Monsieur Edmond too,' she added, turning to the poor
boy.  `Welcome, a thousand times welcome, to the best we can give you.'

"And the last vestige of his foolish pride melted out of the poor boy's
heart, as he impulsively threw himself into the kind motherly arms.
`Kiss me too,' he said, `for Pierre's sake--Pierre, who has saved my
life.'

"You may be sure Madame Germain did not need twice asking to do so.
`Poor boy, poor boy, the most desolate of all,' she said to herself;
`for he has not even a happy past to look back to.'

"How thankful they all were to sit down to a comfortable supper in the
cottage--and, even more, to rest their poor tired limbs in Madame
Germain's nice clean beds, where the sheets, though not of the finest,
were sweet with country bleaching, and scented with lavender!  That
night Germain said nothing to distress the poor children, but the next
day direful news had to be told.  Edmee was indeed homeless, for the
Chateau of Valmont no longer existed, except in crumbling ruins.  It had
been burnt down during Pierre's absence.  Poor old Ludovic happily for
himself perhaps, had not lived to see this.  He had died a few days
after Pierre's departure for Paris.  No special ill-will to the family
had been the reason of this destruction, but one of the wild mobs which
in these dreadful times laid waste so much of the country had found
their way to the peaceful village, and joined by some of the malcontents
who would not believe that the recent exactions of money had not been
the Countess's doing, had set fire to the home of the innocent lady and
her child.

"`After all she was a Sarinet,' was muttered as a sort of excuse for the
shameful deed.  But when the villagers recovered from the shock and
horror, they had united to drive the doers of it from among them, and
were now, father Germain had good reason to think, ready to defend the
orphaned Edmee to the utmost.

"So after much consultation, the Germains determined to remain at
Valmont, though they had at first hesitated whether it would be safe for
their charges to do so.  It would, however, as was soon seen, have been
difficult, almost impossible, to move Edmond.  His strength, once he
felt himself in safety, rapidly failed; he took to his bed, where he lay
in peaceful weakness for some months, suffering little, thankful and
grateful, and clinging with touching affection to Pierre's kind mother,
till at last, when the first spring blossoms began to peep out again, he
gently died.  And though the change in him had endeared him to them all,
they felt it was better thus.  Life would have been a hard struggle to
the poor boy, and he was devoid of the strength required to face his
completely altered circumstances, for even had there been no Revolution
the Sarinet family was completely ruined.

"Before his death Edmee's kind protectors had began to breathe rather
more freely with regard to her safety.  The state of things in Paris was
growing worse and worse; the `Reign of terror,' so called, was
beginning.  But less attention was now given to the upper classes--if,
indeed, any of them still remained in the country!  The fury of the
various Republican parties, every one fighting for the mastery, was now
turning against each other--in the end to be the ruin of all; and the
motives and causes of the first revolt were forgotten in the general
chaos of selfishness, and wild ambition.

"So the months passed on, till they grew into years, and still Edmee was
living like a simple country maiden with her kind friends.  They did all
in their power to prevent her feeling the change in her position.  The
good cure gave her daily lessons, such as her mother would have wished
her to have, and the Germains managed to turn an outhouse which had been
used for storing apples and such things into a pretty little
sitting-room for her, where they collected the very few pieces of
furniture that had been saved from the chateau, several of which are now
in the room where I am writing--the best room at Belle Prairie Farm.
And Edmee gradually recovered some of her old brightness; she felt that
she was where her mother would have wished her to be, and she was by
nature of a wise and unworldly spirit.  Even the destruction of her old
home she learned to view in a way that was very different from the
feelings of most of her class.

"`We ourselves--we Valmonts--may not have sinned as others,' she said
one day to the cure, when he had been explaining to her some of the
causes of this dreadful Revolution which had so changed the face of the
country, `but our class was guilty.  And we have suffered for their
sins.  Is it not so, dear Monsieur?'

"And the old man's own eyes filled with tears, as he looked at her
earnest ones upraised to his.

"`It is even so, my child.'

"`Then I pray God to accept the sacrifice!' said the child.  `But,
Monsieur le Cure, I do not wish to be an aristocrat any more.  I will
belong to my own people.'

"And to this, through all the years that followed, she remained firm.
Even when distant relations, hearing of her escape, wrote from England,
begging her to join them there, with good hope of before long returning
to their own home in France, promising, poor as she now was, to adopt
her as their own child, Edmee wrote decidedly, though gratefully,
refusing.  She had made her choice.  Some years later, thanks to the
efforts of all the most esteemed among the inhabitants of Valmont, a
small portion of her forefathers' possessions, which had been divided
and sold, like scores of other properties, was restored to Edmee, and as
the owner of the Belle Prairie Farm, she was able to do something in
return for the kind friends who had sheltered her in her desolation.
The whole family removed there, and you can fancy that it was a happy
day for Edmee when she received her kind foster-parents under her own
roof.

"I have now come to a point at which I earnestly wish my mother would
herself take up the pen.  Not that there remain many facts or events to
relate, but the crowning one--that of her marriage to my dear father--I
could wish her to describe.  At present--so shortly after his death--she
says she could hardly bear to recall the details of those happy days, in
which she gradually learnt to love her faithful Pierrot, with the
trusting affection of a woman for the man she would choose for her
husband.  But in the future, I have good hopes she may be persuaded to
do so, and also to relate how Pierre, frightened at first at his own
audacity, could scarcely believe it possible that his beautiful Edmee,
his `little lady,' could think herself honoured by his deep and fervent
love.  _I_ cannot altogether sympathise in this great humility on the
part of my dear father; but then I have known him, and the rare beauty
of his character; then, too, I am quite as proud of my Germain ancestry
as of the long lines of Valmont and Sarinet.  And nothing gratifies my
mother so much as when I say so.

"In the meantime I may give a few particulars that may be of interest to
those who will read these pages.  Pierre and Edmee never saw poor
Marguerite Ribou again; but years after they had news of her death--she
died peacefully--from the kind priest in Paris, who had never lost sight
of her, and who restored to Edmee the jewels and money the poor girl had
so honestly kept for her.  And thanks to him--for neither my father or
mother ever entered Paris again--the little portrait, which had been the
means of Pierre's finding Edmee and her mother, was recovered from the
old dealer in antiquities, and placed, with the other relics of her
child-life, in the best parlour at Belle Prairie Farm, where I trust it
may be admired and loved by many generations of the descendants of
Pierre and Edmee Germain.  And now--"

Madame Marceau stopped suddenly, and looked up.

"What is it, mother dear?  Go on, please--that is if you are not tired,"
said several voices.

"No, dears, I am not tired.  I have not read as much to-day as the two
last times."  (For though I have not interrupted the course of the story
to say so, it will be readily understood that the reading of the old
manuscript had occupied several holiday or Sunday evenings).  "But," she
went on, "I have stopped simply because there is no more to read!  Those
two words, `and now,' are the last of the manuscript."

"Oh dear!"--"What a pity!"--"Did our great-grandmother never write any
more to it, as our grandmother hoped she would?" exclaimed the children.

"No, my dears.  She often intended to do so, but she did not live many
years after her husband's death.  She lived to see my mother happily
married to my good father and then she died.  I think the world seemed a
strange place to her without her Pierre.  She spoke of the manuscript
not long before her death.  `After all,' she said, `no words of mine
could have done justice to his goodness.  Teach your children to honour
the memory of their grandfather, and to know that a long line of
ancestry is not the only thing to be proud of.'"

"But mother," said Pierre Marceau, half-timidly, "if one's ancestors
have been _good_ people?"

"Ah yes, my boy.  In such case be not so much proud of them as grateful
to the good God for having come of such a stock, be they noblemen or
farmers, high in the world's esteem, or working with their hands for
their daily bread," said Farmer Marceau, as he rose from the arm-chair
where he had been sitting to listen to his wife's reading.

"And the Valmonts _were_ good," whispered Pierre to his sister Edmee;
"so we _may_ be a little proud of them, you see, after all."

But when he went to say good-night to Madame Marceau, he added gently,
"You are right, dear little mother.  I _am_ very glad that you called me
Pierre, after my good great-grandfather, Pierre Germain--"

My readers may be sure that from the time of the reading of the
manuscript, the little old portrait was dusted with even greater care
than before, and that on holidays and fete days it was decorated with
wreaths of the loveliest flowers to be found in all the country-side.
And there, I hope, in the best room of the old farmhouse, it will smile
down for many and many, a day on the dwellers therein, reminding them
that riches and greatness are not the best or most enduring possessions,
that sorrows come alike to all, that trust in God and reverence for His
laws are the only sure pilots through this life--that faithful,
unselfish love is the most beautiful thing on earth, and, may we not
say, in Heaven also?

End of Project Gutenberg's The Little Old Portrait, by Mrs Molesworth