MARIE JOSEPHINE IS READY
Spring had come early in Paris. It was a fortnight since Dian had gone
to the alley and found Rosanne, since the wonderful evening when they
had sat by the poor little fire of broken boxes and talked and talked.
There they were in the heart of a city that had gone mad, one of them in
hiding to save her life, all of them in gravest danger if once their
real purpose were known, but all of them so happy.
When it was time for the two girls to go to sleep on their cot, Humphrey
and Dian went up to the room above and sat, one on each side of the
table, pondering what it was best to do.
“Th’ lad is there in the bakery shop. Tha found his poor note in th’
cake. The Lord is good. What a way! Odds me, what a way!” Humphrey
muttered to himself. His heart was full, but some of his burden had
rolled away. This quiet shepherd of the valley was at hand to help. He
knew where Lisle was imprisoned and they could take counsel together.
Dian knew no English, and Humphrey’s French, as we know, was limited;
but they managed to converse, and from the first they understood each
other.
“I have a friend of many a year who would be fair willin’ to help us
with a boat. He’s a skipper of his own vessel, the _Sandlass_. They’ve
made young master Lisle’s mother prisoner in her aunt’s house. It is not
safe for any of the family to be in Paris,” said Humphrey.
“It is not safe for any of the family to be in France, not for any of
them.” Dian repeated the last words slowly, adding, “It soon may be
unsafe in Pigeon Valley!” He was silent for a few minutes, and a deep
gravity touched his face, an earnestness that was like a prayer. Then,
as he looked across at Humphrey and saw the misery on his round face, he
smiled his slow smile.
“You have done well and you speak words of comfort. Tell me the name of
your friend who owns the boat and write him a letter,” he said.
Humphrey Trail looked at Dian in amazement.
“His name is Anastasius Grubb. But what good will that do? Tha knows
well there is no way to send a letter through the gates, or to be sure
it will reach my friend!” he exclaimed.
“I’ll see that the letter goes through the gates safely, and that it is
given to the driver of the coach which goes nearest to the valley. I can
trust him to give it into the hands of some one who will put it in the
hands of your friend the skipper!”
“Tha can do this? Tha can trust the letter to go through?”
“Yes, trust,” Dian nodded as he spoke.
That was the conversation that Humphrey Trail and Dian held in the
rat-haunted room in the alley.
* * * * *
A fortnight later the first breath of spring that they had felt there in
the sunshine by the West Barricade had deepened into joyousness in
Pigeon Valley. A faint flare of green touched the tops of trees in the
forest, and a gleam of mauve and gold showed the early budding of
violets and crocuses. There was a happy carnival of song birds early
every morning. The sun was warm at noontime, and the nights were softly
luminous.
There was spring everywhere, except in the hearts of the family at Les
Vignes. There had been no arrival of the messenger for whom they had
waited throughout the long winter. The comtesse had sent them no word,
and that meant that she had not been able to do so. There had been
rumors now and then, even direct news, of the horrors of Paris, brought
by traveling peddlers, but there had been no news from Dian at all.
It was of this that Marie Josephine was thinking as she put Great-aunt
Hortense’s shawl around her, and walked down the staircase at Les
Vignes. It had been the hardest thing to bear, not hearing from Dian.
She had felt so sure that he would find a way to help.
There was a look on Marie Josephine’s face which had never been there
before, a seriousness in her eyes and about her mouth, a look of high
purpose and of dignity. Madame le Pont noticed it as she came into the
salon. They were all sitting about a fire of crisply burning logs, for
the spring nights were cold.
“What is it, Marie Josephine?” she asked, and as she spoke the governess
rose from her chair and came up to her.
“What do you mean, Le Pont dear? What is what?” Marie Josephine said
gently, and she put her arm around Madame Le Pont’s waist and placed her
cheek close to hers for a moment. There was something so wistful in the
action that the governess felt sudden tears springing to her eyes.
“You are different in some way, chérie. You seem so—what shall I
say—so very much a woman to-night.” Madame le Pont smiled as she spoke,
for she knew that her remark would please her pupil greatly. She was
surprised at Marie Josephine’s reply.
“I was just thinking about that to-night—being a woman, I mean. I was
wondering how it might have been”—her voice trembled a little as she
spoke—“if we’d just gone on as we were, here and in Paris; if there
hadn’t been a revolution, and just the same everyday things had
continued to happen. I was wondering what kind of a ball I should have
attended for my first one, and if I should have been a belle!”
“You would have been as lovely as your Great-aunt Hortense when she was
belle of Versailles,” put in Cécile from her seat by the fire.
“You mean she will be. You speak as though all this were going on
forever, Cécile,” said Hortense, fastening back a long curl with her
tortoise-shell comb.
“Let’s dance, Spitfire,” suggested Bertran, sliding across the room to
her.
Marie Josephine nodded. “Yes, I would like to dance. Will you play for
us, Cécile?”
Cécile stood up and went over to the spinnet.
“I’d love to play. See if you can do a gavotte to the shepherd song I
was trying yesterday. Do open the jalousie, Bertran, the moon is trying
to shine in,” she said, seating herself at the old spinnet which had
helped them all to while away the long evenings during the winter.
Cécile needed all her courage these days, for the governess talked more
freely to her than to the others, and she knew that things were coming
to a serious pass at Les Vignes. The men on the place were leaving for
the army. Most of them had already gone. There would be no one to till
the ground. There was no one on whom they could rely, now that Dian had
gone, except Neville, and his only idea of helping was to go again to
Paris. Dian had gone and they had had no word. Neville must not leave
them.
Marie Josephine enjoyed her dance with Bertran. She wore the soft white
silk brocade gown that had been made for her thirteenth birthday, and,
like Hortense, she had fastened her curls with a comb, a large gilt one
of her mother’s which she had borrowed. When they finished, Marie
Josephine made Bertran a deep curtsy. She waited until the others were
talking and then slipped out of the room. She drew the thick red silk
shawl closely about her as she stepped out on to the terrace.
The moon was almost full, and its light seemed to bring out each leaf
and twig of the great oak at the foot of the terrace steps with
startling distinctness. As she stood there in the radiance of the moon,
she thought she saw something move under the tree. Some one shrank back
into the shadow and moved quickly into the deep underbrush. Marie
Josephine waited. She knew that, if it really were any one, after he had
gone through the shrubbery, she would see him cross the clearing that
led to the forest. In a few moments she saw a woman pass rapidly through
the clearing, making for the wood and going in the direction of the
gates. The moonlight had fallen full upon her and there was something
vaguely familiar about her figure. Marie Josephine stood looking after
her. Why was that figure so familiar? Who could it be? Why had she been
hiding there in the shadow as though she were spying?
Marie Josephine’s mind was so full of another thought that she did not
dwell long on the apparition of the woman, whoever she might be, for
more than a minute. Then she ran down the terrace steps and disappeared
in the direction of Mother Barbette’s cottage. As she had guessed,
Mother Barbette herself was not in the cottage. She had gone to one of
the hovels to nurse a boy who had hurt his leg. Marie Josephine called
softly:
“Jean!”
Jean was sitting on the stone doorstep, but she had not seen him in the
shadow of the moon and tree branches. He jumped up and came running to
her.
“I’ve only come for a minute, Jean. Let’s sit on the doorstep. Isn’t the
moonlight wonderful? We’ve had so much fun in the moonlight every
summer, haven’t we? We’ve been comrades, Jean, great friends!” Marie
Josephine put out the back of her hand as she spoke, and Pince Nez, the
crow, lighted on it with a croak.
“Pince Nez will be two years old in June. Do you remember when Dian
rescued him and brought him to the sheepfold? I can just see him now,
lying on the shelf with his funny beak open.” Marie Josephine stroked
the crow gently, and Pince Nez winked impudently.
Jean was sitting in the shadow, and as Marie Josephine went on speaking,
his eyes grew rounder and rounder!
“We must always remember what friends we have been and be happy about
it. You will grow to be a fine man, Jean. I am sure of that. You must
always help Grigge. Dian would wish you to.” Marie Josephine paused and
sat silently looking off at the black outline of the wood.
Suddenly Jean jumped up and stood in front of her.
“Tell me, Little Mademoiselle, tell me what you are thinking about.”
“I am thinking how I love Pigeon Valley, Jean.” She jumped up also and
put her hand on his arm. “I—oh, that’s all!”
Jean spoke again, softly and quickly.
“You are thinking of the plan, I know you are. You are going to do
that—no, I won’t say it, but no one can hear us.” He lowered his voice
to a whisper. “You are going to run away to Paris. I know you are!”
They walked on through the wood path, and when they came to the sundial,
she turned and faced him.
“You are always making up mysteries, you funny boy,” she said. “I must
run, for it’s past my bedtime. Good night, Jean!” she cried over her
shoulder. As she ran toward the house the hot tears chased down her
cheeks. It was the hardest thing she had ever experienced, not telling
Jean what she was going to do that very night!
Cécile and Denise were sitting in front of a log fire in Cécile’s
bedroom when Marie Josephine came in to say good night. Cécile was
talking in her gentle way and she looked up smilingly when Marie
Josephine came in.
“I was telling Denise that we must make the best of this wonderful
spring weather, and we’ve been planning a picnic. What do you say to a
lunch out of doors in the birch woods soon, and a violet picking
expedition afterward?”
Marie Josephine nodded. Her tongue was dry, and for the moment she found
it easier to nod than to speak. She had wiped away her tears from her
face, but she felt them in her heart.
Denise yawned and stood up.
“I for one am sleepy. Bertran and I had a splendid ride. It is stupid of
Le Pont, though, not to let us go out of the demesne just because that
bailiff person said it was not safe. Why, our roads about Les Vignes are
the safest in the whole world! Good night; and let us each one dream of
the true loves we are going to have!” Denise laughed gaily and twirled
around on her blue satin bedroom slippers, their crystal buckles
sparkling in the firelight.
When she had gone, Marie Josephine sat down on the floor in front of the
fire.
“You look so perfectly dear to-night with your hair caught up that way,
Marie Josephine. I can shut my eyes and see you as you’ll be four years
from now. The red shawl becomes you, too. Just wait, you’ll have your
true loves, I’m sure of that!” Cécile said, leaning back against the
dark brocaded velvet chair.
Marie Josephine turned toward her eagerly. “Do you really think so,
Cécile? Ah, tell me,” as she went on speaking she came close up to
Cécile’s chair, kneeling with both hands on the arm of it, “Cécile, you
will always love me. You’ll always trust me, won’t you?” There was
something so intense in the look she gave her friend that Cécile leaned
forward and gazed at her.
“Why yes, yes, of course. What is it, Marie Josephine!” she exclaimed.
“I—oh, nothing—that is, let me just give you a big hug.” Marie
Josephine put both arms about her friend and hugged her. Then she jumped
up quickly.
“Proté will be tired waiting up for me. Good night, Cécile!” She ran
over to the door, then turned and waved her hand toward Cécile, who
waved back. Then she went to her own room.
Proté tucked the bedclothes neatly about her when she said good night.
She was one of those who could not think of Marie Josephine’s ever
growing up, and she spoke authoritatively as she blew out the candle.
“You must be careful about the chill night air, Little Mademoiselle. It
is not good, you know. Keep well covered, and do not, I beg of you, go
over to the window to see the moon!” Proté’s round face was serious. She
felt a great responsibility toward all the children, especially the
youngest one, the Little Mademoiselle.
“Come here a minute, you funny Proté. Now bend over and I’ll squeeze you
tight. Proté, look at Trudle. Hasn’t she a smug face? Never let them
know that she sleeps with me. Can’t you fairly see their horror! 'She is
nearly fourteen and she sleeps with her doll!’ Proté chérie, you are a
dear and I love you. Here’s one more squeeze! Good night.”
Proté returned her charge’s embrace fervently, and then went over to the
doorway. As she went out she looked back at the little figure in the
great bed.
“Good night, Little Mademoiselle. God guard you!” she said.
Marie Josephine lay very still, the wooden-faced doll beside her. She
heard a clock strike ten and then eleven, and after waiting a few
moments, jumped lightly out of bed, and going over to the door, bolted
it. Then, aided only by the moonlight streaming in through the wide
casement near her bed, she went over to a cupboard and, standing on a
chair, reached back as far as she could and lifted out a box. She jumped
down and went over to the bed with the box and opened it. She drew out a
shabby, rather soiled, black calico apron. She began to dress herself
rapidly, discarding her lace-trimmed petticoat and putting on plain
garments such as a peasant child would wear. Over them she put the
black, smocklike apron. She went over to the dressing table, and opening
a drawer, fished about until she found a pair of scissors. Then she
began to clip her hair. It fell in soft, warm waves on to her shoulders
and thence to the floor. When she had finished, she looked into the
glass and by the light of the moon was able to see herself plainly.
She saw a pale little girl with big, black eyes, whose ragged,
unkempt-looking black locks flapped about her face! She smiled into the
glass and the forlorn, black-clad figure smiled back at her. Then she
put on a warm, worn jacket with a torn sleeve, tucked a black
handkerchief about her neck and tossed back her uneven wisps of black
hair. She took a bundle from the box on the bed and, after one glance
about the room, unbolted the door and went out, closing it softly behind
her.
She crept along the hall until she came to Madame Le Pont’s room. She
stopped by the closed door and wrapped a note about the knob. After
waiting a moment and listening, she went back to her own door. There was
a whine and a scratch on the other side. It was Flambeau, who had slept
soundly while she was dressing, but who had awakened and missed her.
“Listen, Flambeau,” she breathed through the keyhole. “I’d love to take
you with me, doggie, but I’m going where you couldn’t go. I want you and
Jean to go along more than, more than——” Her voice trailed into a soft
sob. This would never do. She turned away and ran silently and swiftly
through the great house, unlocked a small door leading on to a little
balcony over the rose garden, and jumped lightly down a distance of a
few feet on to the soft new grass of the east terrace.
Then she was off like the wind, her bundle under her arm. She looked
back once at the great house, so silver white under the moon. She
entered the wood, so fresh and wild and sweet, on this early spring
night. Startled wild things in the bushes stirred and scampered at her
approach. She must do one thing—she must have one last look at Mother
Barbette’s cottage. She stopped running as she caught sight of it
through the budding trees. There it was, so warm and snug and red with
its straight, quaint stone chimney, its neat stone doorstep. Marie
Josephine looked and looked at it as though she could never look long
enough or hard enough. Then she turned and walked slowly away. As she
entered the wood path again, she thought she saw something moving in the
shadow. She had thought the same thing on her way to the cottage. She
could not be frightened in her own woods of Les Vignes, but she started
to run, and ran on and on, taking the cut through the hedge near the
gates as Dian had done, and, like him, going to the huts. She did not
knock as he had done, but put her mouth close to the keyhole.
“Grigge!” she called, very softly. Almost before she knew it the door
opened and Grigge’s gaunt, long face peered through the opening. When he
saw Marie Josephine he came out and closed the door. He did not
recognize her at first, and when she spoke his astonishment was so great
that he rubbed his eyes with his jacket sleeve and stared at her
open-mouthed.
“Listen, Grigge, I have only time to speak a word with you. I am going
to find Dian, and to help him and the others, if I can. I want you to
know. And, Grigge,” she came a step closer and looked up at him
earnestly, “I feel that you can do so much here among the people. For
Dian’s sake, help us now. I know that everyone is leaving us, and that
there is wild talking in the barns and through the fields. Grigge, I
know that you have nothing to be grateful for to us, but will you not
help us now? Stay and care for Dian’s sheep. Do not join the wild crowds
in the townships.” She touched his arm in farewell and was off, flying
down the road as though her feet had wings.
Grigge stood looking after her, so dazed that he could not credit his
senses. He had come out half asleep and found a shock-haired peasant
girl at his door who had spoken to him with the voice of the Little
Mademoiselle! What was it she had said? Do not join the wild crowds in
the townships! Little she knew of those crowds, or of anything but ease
and luxury. She was right, he had nothing to be grateful for to a Saint
Frère. He hated them root and branch. He stood looking after Marie
Josephine as she sped away along the moonlit road, as though he could
not believe his eyes. Where was she going, and what did it mean? Then
some of her words came back to him: “Stay and care for Dian’s sheep!” He
went into the close hovel and threw himself down on his oat-straw
shakedown.
Marie Josephine ran and ran until she could run no more. At last she
sank down in the shadow of a newly-budded oak, breathing hard, her
bundle at her side. As she sat there she heard a sound which surprised
her, a sound of swiftly running steps which might almost have been an
echo of her own! She shrank back farther in the shadow. Some one was
running toward her through a dark side path of a meadow close to the
road. She stood up, took a step forward, and cried, “Jean!”
He sank down under the tree and for several seconds could do nothing but
pant painfully. At last he took one deep, long breath and spoke.
“I almost lost you. You led me such a dance! You ran as though you had
lightning in your shoes. I even called to you and begged you to wait,
but you did not hear!”
Marie Josephine was so glad to see him that she could not speak. Finally
she said:
“You came; but how did you know?”
“I just thought it was to-night from the way you spoke when we sat there
on the doorstep. I knew that, because of Petite Mère, you would never
let me come with you, but I’ve come, I’ve come. I’ve never been anywhere
at all, and now I’m going with you. I’m going to take care of you! We’ve
come a long way and we can’t go back! I watched for you by the terrace.
I crept out when I heard Petite Mère snoring. Then when I saw you, I
followed you. I hid behind the hedge while you talked with Grigge. Name
of a name, but he was dumb with surprise. I ran near you along the
meadow, but you went so fast and I stumbled twice and fell. I’m going
with you. You can’t stop me. I’m going all the way!”
Marie Josephine jumped up and took his hand. She was so glad that he had
come that the tears brimmed over and rolled down her cheeks.
“It’s naughty, it’s awful—it’s wonderful! Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come.
We must not waste another second here. We must not rest at all until
daylight.”
They started to walk at a swift pace, holding hands, the bundle flopping
over Jean’s shoulder. All about them was the sweetness and mystery of
the night, and before them, the lure of adventure!