IN THE SNOWSTORM
Dian heard the great clock on the stairs at Les Vignes boom out the
twelve strokes of midnight as he said the few hasty words of farewell to
Neville. He saw with satisfaction that the moon was out and that the
wind was changing. He walked down the great driveway which led through
the demesne. It was a good mile to the gates, but with his long, easy
strides he covered the ground with amazing quickness. At the left was
the dark outline of the wood and behind lay the wide terraces, grey and
bare this late November night.
Dian turned to his left at the far end of the driveway and entered a
narrow path bordered on each side by slim poplar trees, then he climbed
through a narrow opening in a low hedge and found himself on the
highroad. He walked quickly along until he came to the row of straggling
huts to which Jean had brought the loaves of bread on the August night
when he had tried to keep his cousin Grigge from taking one whole loaf
for himself.
He knocked softly on the door of one of the huts and waited, listening.
After a moment he heard a sound from within and then the door opened
slightly and a gaunt, thin face showed itself. It was the face of
Grigge, and when he saw the shepherd standing there, he came outside,
closing the door softly behind him. He had on the same old, shabby work
clothes that he had worn all day, having lain down for the night on his
heap of straw without removing them, glad of the little warmth they
afforded him.
“Dian!” he exclaimed softly. “Dian! Where are you going?”
The shepherd put his sack on the ground and, feeling in the inside
pocket of his cloak, brought out a goatskin purse and handed it to the
boy, who took it wonderingly.
“I am going on something of a journey, Grigge, and I am leaving my sheep
in your care. I am trusting them to you and I know that in spite of your
wild ways, lad, you will keep them faithfully for me. Let them pasture
until the snow comes and then be on guard for the wolves. Here is a bit
of money, only a bit. Mother Barbette will give you bread when she has
it to give, but there will not be overmuch for her and Jean. Farmer
Lessoir will sell you flour, such as it is. You must see to it that your
mother and the young children have their share.”
Dian put his hand kindly on Grigge’s shoulder, and he saw that the color
had come into the boy’s cheeks at his words. Grigge caught hold of the
edge of the shepherd’s cloak and looked up at him imploringly, for it
seemed as though he could not bear to say good-by to the one person in
all the world whom he loved and trusted.
“Oh, do not go away and leave me, Dian. It is awful to think of the
winter’s coming. What shall I do without you, Dian! No one will have
aught to do with me but you.” Grigge turned up the frayed collar of his
poor jacket as he spoke, for the chill air swirled about him
unmercifully.
“You are to be a man while I am away. Try to be brave and to add a
little comfort to the lives of your poor mother and your brothers and
sisters. Go to your aunt for counsel. She is a good woman and means well
by you all.” Dian lifted his sack as he spoke and threw it over his
shoulder.
“I’m not welcome there. I’ll have naught to do with them,” Grigge
answered sullenly, but realizing that his friend was about to depart he
caught his cloak again. “I’ll do well by the sheep, and I’ll try to
think of the others when the hunger is tearing at my heart. Will you not
tell me where you are going and why you leave this way in the stillness
of the night?”
Dian shook his head. “That I cannot do, Grigge, but if the good God will
it, I shall come back again. Remember all I have said and guard my sheep
well, for they are dear indeed to me. Hold your courage through the
winter. Who knows what good may come by spring!” He touched the boy’s
shoulder in farewell and was off down the wide road. [Illustration:
Grigge] Grigge gazed after him, his hands clasped together, a sob
catching his throat. It seemed as though all that he knew of kindliness
and comradeship was going farther and farther from him down the
wind-swept road. He had never known anything in his life but discomfort.
He had always been hungry and in winter he had always been cold. He was
rough and selfish and sullen and he knew it and most of the time did not
care. But as he stood there that night by the low door of his wretched
home, Grigge determined to be different! He went inside, and the wind
slammed the door behind him before he could catch it. The noise awoke
his little sister Letta, who whined, “It is cold; it is cold.”
“You are no colder than the rest of us,” Grigge answered roughly, but,
after hesitating a moment, he put the piece of shawl over her and then
tumbled down on to his mound of straw by the door.
Dian hardly heeded the weather as he quickly covered the ground. His
thoughts were with the lad he had left and the sad lot of the people who
lived at the very gates of a great house. He felt sad at heart, but said
to himself, as he had often done before, “There is no use in your
grieving for them, for that will not help them, and to help them is your
dearest wish.” Grigge was only one of thousands of young lads who were
made old and bitter by lack of food and the injustice that bound their
lives. Dian knew little of the great conflict that was raging in Paris
or of the armies massing throughout the land. He knew that the people,
who for centuries had been overtaxed and overburdened by the arrogance
and indifference of the nobility, had at last risen in revolt, but he
did not know that they were being governed by bad, unscrupulous men and
that there was no longer either law or order or justice in Paris or in
other parts of France. He had thought that it was right for him to go to
Paris, having had a feeling, for many days past, that the young Comte
Lisle, whom he loved, was in danger. So he had made his simple
preparations, telling only Neville, whom he knew to be faithful, where
he was going.
* * * * *
The evening on which Dian told the children, in Mother Barbette’s
cottage, about the young page in blue and silver was a wintry one in
Paris. The snow had begun to fall, slanting mistlike through dreary
alleyways. Although it was only a slight scurry and melted almost as
soon as it touched the ground, it covered, for a little while, much of
the soot and grime, making a fairy tracery about the roofs of the old
houses. The sleet blew in a rakish, zigzag way across the alley where
Vivi lived and far down the dim street beyond it. Curving northward, it
swirled past close-shut shop windows and gaunt, noisy tenements, until
it reached the great square in the middle of which stood the guillotine!
Then, in a sort of frenzy, it rioted down a wide avenue, spending itself
at last against the windows of a house, close shut behind iron gates, in
a quiet corner of Paris.
Lisle Saint Frère and Rosanne de Soigné were spending the evening in the
great drawing-room in front of the fire. Rosanne knelt by the dying
flames, peering at some nuts which she was roasting in a bed of coals.
Her fair hair fell about her shoulders, and she had on the same white
frock which she had worn on the night that she and Marie Josephine hid
in the balcony. She shivered in spite of the fact that she wore a little
velvet jacket over her frock.
“One of them is almost ready to pop. That’s yours. Wouldn’t it be a
jolly thing if we could roast one for Marie Josephine?” As she spoke
Rosanne leaned forward and picked out the nut with a pair of long bronze
tongs and laid it on the iron fender to cool. She had stayed with Lisle
and his mother ever since her mother had gone to nurse her father.
Events had crowded thick and fast after the departure of the others for
Pigeon Valley. Madame de Soigné had had just time to get away before the
gates were closely guarded, and her departure had been made possible
only because of an excellent disguise. There had been no word from her,
and Lisle and his mother did what they could to keep Rosanne from
feeling the anxiety which they themselves experienced. She never left
the house and they told her nothing of what happened in the city. She
was used to believing what she was told, but she thought a great deal
about it all, and she was more troubled than they knew.
“Do you think we shall be going to Pigeon Valley soon, Lisle?” she asked
suddenly.
Lisle shook his head, eating the nut gingerly, for it was still hot. He
and Rosanne had not known each other very well in the old days, but they
had become fairly well acquainted in the three months that they had been
together. Lisle did not find Rosanne half as interesting as the little
sister whom he missed so much, but he liked her, and he had a protecting
feeling for her. She was his responsibility, just as his mother was, and
he wanted to do his best for both of them. This was what made things so
hard for him, having to be careful for their sakes. What adventures he
could have if he were alone!
The days had been dull enough, in spite of all the happenings in the
city, and time dragged heavily. They had had no word from Neville since
he had left for Pigeon Valley, and the longing to hear from, the others
at Les Vignes seemed sometimes more than they could bear, but each hid
his emotion from the other. They had been taught to do this always, and
now their training was making it easier for them to seem cheerful.
“Do you think we can go to Pigeon Valley in the spring, Lisle? Please
answer me,” Rosanne persisted. When Lisle still did not reply, she went
on, trying to hide the tremble in her voice: “It is just as Marie
Josephine said. You think that you are so very grown-up. You will not
tell me of all you fear. I know that we are in great trouble. I’ve
thought more about it since yesterday morning when Madame Saint Frère
went to your Great-aunt Hortense, who is so very ill. There were tears
in your mother’s eyes. I saw them. She is only to be away for a few
days, and yet she did not like to leave us. Tell me, Lisle, please tell
me all about it. I know it is a revolution and that I may not go out on
the street to walk or ride and that the servants have left us and dear
maman has not sent me any word since she went to papa. Tell me, Lisle,
is it all so dreadful?”
Rosanne came and stood looking up at Lisle, her brown eyes eagerly
watching his blue ones as he answered her.
“It’s a bad time,” he said slowly. “It can’t last much longer. Yes, it
is a revolution and there is danger for some people, but we are safe
enough. There is no reason why we should fear.” Lisle was glad that
Rosanne had spoken. It made them seem more like comrades and he found
that it was a relief to talk over the situation. He saw that she was
missing his mother and he felt vaguely that he must try to divert her.
He, too, missed his mother, but of course he would not admit it even to
himself. The comtesse had shown a softer side than any he had ever seen
before during the past months that they had been alone. The three had
sat for long hours by the fire and she had told of the gay, careless
times when she had been a girl, when there had been nothing but gay
balls and gilded sedan chairs, laughter and satins to make up her days.
Now all her friends were gone, many being imprisoned in the Abbaye or
other prisons of Paris, some having escaped to England, some to
different parts of France, all because they and their ancestors had
oppressed the people.
Rosanne was right when she said that Lisle’s mother had not wanted to
leave them even for a few days. Great-aunt Hortense was ill and she had
sent her servant with a note begging her great-niece to come to her
bedside. She lived only a few squares away.
“Don’t worry, mother, we shall do quite well, Rosanne and I. Henri will
look after us as to food, and you’ll find us roasting nuts by the fire
when you come back. I shall take good care of Rosanne,” Lisle had
assured his mother.
The comtesse had put both her slender hands on his shoulders as she
answered him. “And of yourself, my son, my only son, my beloved,” she
had said. Lisle and Rosanne had thought often, since she left, of her
emotion.
“Teach me the gavotte steps again, Lisle. I shall soon be able to dance
quite well.” Rosanne held out her hand as she spoke. “I can hum the
melody again like this. Let us see if we can do it all the way through!”
Lisle thought it a rather silly thing to do, but he was uneasy about
Rosanne’s missing his mother, and he felt that it was his duty to keep
her cheerful. He found that he enjoyed the dance, for he directed his
companion in the different measures and he liked telling people how to
do things.
“You bow so beautifully, Lisle. You are just like the cavaliers on
Monsieur Watteau’s fans,” Rosanne exclaimed admiringly, as they reached
the end of a measure.
“You will soon do very well if you will keep your mind on it,” Lisle
answered as they hummed the bewitching melody of the last measure and
took their positions to begin.
Rosanne colored with pleasure. She would never have dreamed six months
before that she would be dancing with Lisle Saint Frère. She thought of
the August night when she and Marie Josephine had watched him from the
balcony as he danced with her cousin Cécile. What would Lisle think if
he knew what a very naughty thing they had done? Sometime it would be
fun to tell him!
As he danced, Lisle thought of something else his mother had said: “I
would have so little fear if I were leaving you with Neville. We can
trust him always, but we do not know, even though he has seemed
faithful, whether or not we can always trust Henri.” Lisle had said
nothing then to his mother. Much as he would have liked to have
reassured her, he did not trust Henri and never could pretend that he
did.
There was yet another thing that Lisle was thinking about. It made him
say to himself sternly: “You should be ashamed to let yourself fancy
such things. It is not fit that one who soon will go out to fight for
the king and queen should have silly fancies.” This is what Lisle called
his fancy. He had gone several times to the bakery where he had seen
Humphrey Trail, and twice of late he thought that on his return he was
being followed! He liked going to the bakery. He would sit at one of the
glass tables enjoying his eau sucré and a méringue and watching the
well-to-do merchants’ wives, who for the time being had nothing to fear,
come and go. No one had seemed to notice him particularly. The bakery
woman had looked at him a little curiously as she did up her crisp cakes
in neat boxes. He always wore the shabby old groom’s suit and he never
spoke, except to give his order and to buy the cakes for Rosanne.
Lisle had thought often of Humphrey Trail since the night that the
farmer had given him the Saint Antoine address. The man had meant well.
Of that Lisle was sure. There was comfort also in the thought that he
could find Humphrey if he should need him. Nevertheless, he had not
heeded Humphrey’s warning. He had continued to go to the bakery. It had
been one of his few pleasures during those strange weeks so suddenly
different from anything he had ever known. Never before had he eaten in
a cake shop or bought things for himself. Everything was changing. Six
months more and there would be no shop. The shoppers themselves would be
hiding for their lives.
“Henri will be back soon with the meat, and then let us have supper in
here by the fire,” suggested Rosanne as they stopped to rest from their
dancing.
The fire had died down, and Lisle saw that there was no wood left in the
wood box of hammered silver on the stone hearth. It was very cold and he
noticed, now that they had ceased dancing, that Rosanne was shivering.
Where was Henri? Why was he not taking care of them?
“I shall go out into the halls and call for Henri, and if I do not find
him, I shall go to the cellars for some wood. Stay here by the little
bit of fire that is left. I shall only be gone a few minutes,” Lisle
said to Rosanne, and leaving her he went out into the great marble hall.
He went over to the entrance door and, opening it, looked out at the
fast falling snow. As he did so, he thought he saw something dark in the
shadow of one of the lower doors, but when he peered again through the
darkness and the sleet, there was nothing.
He closed the door and walked down the hall. He could hear Rosanne
singing to herself in the drawing-room:
“La petite Jeannette avait un poupée mignonne,
Tra la la la, Tra la la la,
Elle chantait pour elle une joli chanson,
Tra la la la, Tra la la la.”
He called “Henri,” but there was no reply, and so he walked on down the
hall, through a long corridor as Marie Josephine had done when she had
gone to the secret cellar. He turned a corner, went down another
corridor, opened a door, and descended a steep flight of stairs. He knew
that they must have wood to last them until Henri should come in with
their supper. He saw that the small door at the end of the cellar that
led to the basement was open, a blast of cold wind drifting in. He
stooped and picked up as much wood as he could carry. Then he stood up,
holding the sticks against the dark velvet of his tunic. At that moment
some one caught him firmly about the waist. The wood fell with a thump
to the stone floor as his arms were tied quickly and skillfully behind
him. He was lifted across some one’s shoulders, and a moment later felt
the rush of cold wind in his face. Then his captor began to run with
him, swiftly, through the fast falling snow!