SUSPICIONS
May 17, 1914. It may seem a strange thing, but two whole weeks have gone
by since the Imp told us what she did, and nothing has happened at all.
By "nothing" I mean that no astonishing developments of any kind have
occurred. We went out from Carol's barn that day perfectly certain that
everything--about Louis, at least--would be changed and strange and
upheaved. We lived on a tiptoe of expectation for hours and days, but
all has gone on over there just the same as ever. I can't understand it.
That morning, about eleven o'clock, Louis came over to tell us that
Monsieur was feeling much better, and that we need no longer worry about
him. We all gazed at him curiously,--_so_ curiously, I'm afraid, that he
noticed it.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You all act as if you were seeing a
spook. Is there anything wrong about me anywhere?"
"Oh, no!" I hurried to assure him. "We were wondering how Monsieur was
getting on."
"Well, he's getting on famously," said Louis, "but I certainly did
manage to upset him. I was afraid he wouldn't take the news well, but I
didn't dream it would be as bad as that. I only supposed he would rant
and tear his hair. I'm horribly sorry, for I'm actually getting a bit
fond of the old gentleman, queer as he is."
"Did he say anything more to you about it?" asked the Imp.
I knew she couldn't resist asking that. I was crazy to, myself, but
couldn't pluck up the courage.
"Not another word," Louis replied. "I expected he'd say a whole
dictionary full. He did start off once with a word or two, but evidently
changed his mind. He hasn't even hinted at it since."
This seemed a little queer, but we decided (after Louis had gone) that
Monsieur was probably putting off the ordeal till he felt stronger. That
would be entirely likely. So we told each other that by the next day
Louis would probably know the whole strange truth.
But the next day came and went, and Louis was just the same and nothing
was changed, even at the end of a week. He told us that Monsieur had
never so much as alluded to the subject again, and, for _his_ part, he
was mighty glad that the affair had blown over. He said he was sure
Monsieur would get used to the notion after a while.
So time has passed, and things remain just as they were. We cannot
imagine what has come over Monsieur,--Carol, the Imp, and myself, I
mean. Why is he waiting? Why doesn't he tell Louis, as he said would
have to? What does all this delay mean?
But if everything remains outwardly the same, it is not so with the way
we three _feel_ about things. I don't know if I can explain the strange
change that has come over our feelings toward Louis and Monsieur and
all that concerns them,--especially toward Louis. All our lives he has
been just 'Louis Durant,' the nice boy who lived across the Green, who
played with us from the time we were babies and studied with us in the
same classes in school, who was just like our brother, except that he
didn't live in the same house. We have always thought of him in the same
way that we do of Dave. Now, however, everything is different. He
_isn't_ 'Louis Durant' any more. He's some strange, unknown,
long-way-off person, whose ancestors were monarchs of one of the
greatest countries on earth, and who might have been a king himself, if
things had gone a little differently. I simply _can't_ feel near to, and
well-acquainted with, a person like that. Carol says she can't, either,
and the Imp admits that she's felt so a good while longer than we have.
It seems as if _our_ Louis had been taken away forever and a strange,
unapproachable person had been put in his place. Not that Louis
_himself_ acts any differently. He's exactly the same as ever, of
course, and he's said a dozen times in the course of the last week:
"What's come over you girls, anyway? You're all the time gazing at me
with eyes as big as dinner-plates, and you act so queerly and are so
absent-minded that I don't know you! Has a realization of the fact that
I hope some day to be a full-fledged aviator had such a doleful effect
on you as all that? You haven't been the same since that day. I wish to
goodness that I'd never told you, if you're going to take it in this
silly way."
Of course we try to assure him that nothing at all is the matter, but it
doesn't work very well.
We three have talked a number of times about whether we ought to breathe
a word of what we suspect to Louis, but the Imp says positively, "No."
If he is to know, she says, he must learn it from Monsieur and from no
other. In fact, by rights she ought not to have let us into the secret,
and she wouldn't have done so, except that she thought there would be
no reason why she shouldn't after Monsieur had told Louis. Since he
apparently hasn't told him anything yet, it is our duty to keep the
secret. I guess she must be right. _I_ wouldn't want to be the one to
tell Louis, anyway.
Our final exams for this year are coming in a week or so, and we are all
"cramming" hard, so I probably won't have a chance to think of much else
for some time to come.
June 3, 1914. Everything is just about the same as when I last wrote in
this journal. Nothing is changed, as far as we can see, in affairs
across the Green. We are all so busy working for and taking our
examinations that we haven't had much time to think about it, especially
Carol, who is weak in mathematics, and I, who always dread Latin. Only
the Imp remains unworried by these troubles. Her studies never did cause
her a moment's uneasiness, as far as I can see, though how she gets
through them, when she never makes even a pretense of studying, is
beyond me.
Monsieur is about again in the usual way, and two or three times Carol
and I have had a few moments' conversation with him, while he was
strolling on the Green. I simply can't describe the uncanny feeling I
have when with him now. If he was a mysterious person before, he's a
million times more so now, and every moment that I'm talking to him I
find myself in a panic, for fear those eagle eyes of his will bore into
my mind and discover the fact that I know his secret. Of course I don't
suppose he realizes for a moment what he said that day he was taken so
ill, and certainly he does not dream that the Imp was keen enough to
unearth what she did. He is polite and courteous and stilted--and very
French--in his manner toward us, and I suppose he no more dreams that we
know what we do than he supposes that the sky will fall on him.
One thing is beginning to disturb me very much. It's a suspicion that
occurred to the Imp, and that she confided to us a day or two ago. She
rather startled Carol and me by suddenly putting this question to us:
"What do you figure out that Monsieur's plans are?"
"How on earth should _we_ know?" said I.
"Well, you must admit that he probably has some, or he wouldn't be
dangling around here so long," replied the Imp. "Why shouldn't he tell
Louis what he has to tell, and then go away or take Louis away, as the
case may be?"
"What do _you_ think, Bobs?" asked Carol. "I'll warrant you have worked
it all out."
"If I tell you what I think, you'll tell _me_ I'm a lunatic," declared
the Imp. "It does sound rather crazy, and yet why shouldn't it be so?"
"Why shouldn't _what_ be so?" I cried. "You haven't even told us yet."
"Well, here's my notion," she said. "Suppose--well, just suppose that
somebody wanted to overthrow the present government of France. Wouldn't
this be a lovely chance?"
We were struck dumb with amazement by this astounding proposition.
"I guess you _are_ a lunatic!" I said. "But even lunatics ought to have
a chance to explain themselves. Go on."
"Oh, I know it sounds foolish," returned the Imp, "but, after all, is it
any more foolish than the possibility that our Louis may be a descendant
of a king of France? Just think what that means. Suppose there are a lot
of discontented descendants of royalists in France, who are dissatisfied
with the present form of government. And suppose that they hear there
_is_ a direct descendant of Louis XVI now living. Wouldn't it be a
lovely chance to get up a secret insurrection in his favor and so
restore him to the throne? It wouldn't be the first time that a republic
has been overthrown in that country, if you remember. And if this
Monsieur happens to be a Bourbon relation, he'd be all the more
interested."
Just then Carol gave a gasp, and cried out:
"Yes, and do you remember the way that first cablegram commenced? 'Time
almost ripe'! I always did think that was queer."
"Exactly what I said," continued the Imp. "And what do you suppose
Monsieur is twiddling his thumbs around Paradise Green for? Just
because Louis isn't falling in with his plans as nicely as he'd hoped.
I'll warrant Monsieur has been horribly disappointed from the first,
because Louis was so thoroughly _American_ and didn't take a scrap of
interest in his French affairs. He sees plainly that Louis isn't going
to be easy to handle. And if _Louis_ won't stand for this restoration
business, then 'the fat's in the fire.' _That's_ what's bothering
Monsieur. And he's waiting around to see if he can't win Louis over
unconsciously somehow. At least, that's how I've figured it out."
We couldn't help but agree with her, and wondered that we'd never
thought of it by ourselves. Besides, the more we thought of it, the more
we remembered dozens of little incidents that seem to confirm it. If we
all weren't so busy pegging away at our exams, and so had more time to
think about this, I feel sure that we could come to some definite
conclusion about it, but as matters stand, I, for one, am too bewildered
to know what to think.
And Louis goes about as happy as a lark, unconscious of it all!
June 29, 1914. Examinations are over at last, and I'm thankful to say
that we all passed, except that Carol has a "condition" in mathematics
that she'll have to make up during the summer. Anyhow, it's over, and we
can breathe more freely and look forward to vacation.
Last evening after tea the Imp asked Carol and myself to go for a walk
with her, as she had something important she wanted to tell us. We
suspected that she'd thought out something else about Louis, so we went
quite willingly. Otherwise, I'm bound to confess, we'd have been bored
stiff with the prospect of spending our time with her. It was quite
true. She _had_ thought of something new.
"Girls," she began, "has it occurred to you that if what we suspect
about Monsieur and Louis is true, it's a very serious affair?"
We said we supposed so, but that we didn't see how we could help it.
"That's just it," she answered. "We _ought_ to help it, somehow. I told
you once that this was a matter that might affect the world, and you can
easily see now that it is. Ought we to simply sit down and let it slide
gaily along?"
"But what on earth can _we_ do about it?" I demanded. "Just remember
that we're nothing but three young girls, one not even out of public
school, and that not a soul on earth would believe us if we were to make
such fools of ourselves as to tell what, after all, we only suspect."
"History has sometimes been in the hands of as young people as
ourselves," she remarked. I'm sure I don't know where the Imp gets all
her information, and yet somehow I'm bound to believe her. _I_ couldn't
think of a single case where history had been in the hands of any one of
our age, but I didn't dare say so, because she would probably have
promptly pointed out half a dozen cases. So I said nothing.
"I haven't made up my mind what we ought to do," she went on, "but I'm
sure _something_ must be done, and pretty soon, too!"
"Suppose we begin by telling Father," I suggested. "He has a pretty
level head about most things."
"Pooh!" she scoffed. "He'd just laugh his head off at us, and tell us to
run away and play and forget all about it. You know Father doesn't take
much stock in anything that isn't agriculture." This was quite true, and
we saw at once that the Imp had the right of it.
"No, don't speak to any one yet," she added. "We'll keep the secret a
while longer, till I've thought out a better plan."
This morning another queer thing happened. As there was no school, we
were all sitting on the veranda discussing the startling news in the
paper, the assassination of the Archduke of Austria, which happened
yesterday. Just then Louis came over to ask us to go out in the launch.
"What do you think of the news?" he asked.
We said it was awful, and that we were wondering what would happen next.
"You ought to have seen Monsieur when he read it," went on Louis,
laughing at the recollection. "He got up, crumpled the paper into a
ball, and stormed about the place as if he were having a fit. I asked
him why he was so excited about it, and he immediately began to reel off
a lot about the 'balance of power' in Europe,--how it would be upset and
what Austria would be likely to do, where Russia would object and how
France might be affected, and a whole lot more that I couldn't begin to
understand. He's a great student of international politics, he says, and
this news seemed to upset him a lot. I'm sure I can't see why."
The Imp poked me so hard in the ribs that I almost shrieked aloud, but I
saw at once what she must be thinking. _Are_ Monsieur's plans upset by
this, I wonder? Or are we just imagining trouble where there is none?
I'm sure I don't know. But of one thing I'm certain. I never realized
how strange it would feel to go off for a picnic up the river in a
launch run by a boy in a pair of paint bespattered overalls, whose
ancestors sat on the throne of France and who might, in his turn, become
the future ruler of that country.
Anyhow, I don't like it. I'm not happy, and I wish things were just as
they used to be. So does Carol, but I'm afraid the Imp enjoys all the
excitement.