“To one of those dictates of the mind for which there is sometimes no
accounting,” gravely stated the scholar, “you owe your lives, my young
friends. Within these walls,” indicating the room by a sweep of the
hand, “I hear no sound. But I was moved to open yonder door, and the
drumming of the knocker drew me to the front entrance. By the cries
for help I knew someone was in distress. At all times the side streets
about here are dangerous for night travel, and in these times there is
no protection at all. You came a strange way, my boys.”
“I had forgotten that it was not like it used to be,” explained Henri,
“and, too, I made a wrong turn, owing to the fact that the tower lights
no longer serve to guide.”
“Yes,” continued the scholar, “the new element of warfare, the
death-dealing airships, are responsible for that precaution. But in
the morning my man, Armand, will set you right. He has gone up into
the city for food supplies, and will not return to-night. Rest with me
until then.”
With the light of day, and it was a glorious sunlit day, the terrors of
the past night folded their wings and disappeared.
Armand well fitted into such a day; he was a jolly fellow, all smiles
and a waistband that extended a long way ’round. He could not for the
life of him see, he declared, how the boys ever got into queer street,
when the way (to him) was so straight to the big boulevards. He was
full of a story how he had seen some great flying by noted aviators
only the day before.
“It is wonderful, this flying, is it not?”
This question as much to promote his enthusiasm as anything else.
“How fine is that Gilbert,” he rambled on, “and, to think, two young
boys who also traveled the air just like the master.”
“It just happens, my friend,” said Henri, “that those two boys are
standing close to you this blessed minute.”
“Mon Dieu!” (Goodness me!)
Armand was a slave from that minute.
He must tell the great doctor in the library all about it. And the
great doctor himself also had a second look at his young guests.
His was a kindly farewell, but he lifted a hand when the boys tried to
thank him for the boon of life he had conferred by his action of the
night.
“In your prayers, my boys; in your prayers.”
He turned and shut himself in with his books.
“You know of this location?”
Henri read to Armand from the address on the packet.
“Do I know my name? It is the grand boulevard. And the number--that,
too, is easy.”
Armand knew his Paris.
“March on!” Billy giving mock command.
Reddy’s dream of Paris had first been realized in the form of a
nightmare, but now it ranged to climax of delight--the Place de la
Concorde, one of the largest and most elegant squares in Europe; the
Egyptian obelisk; the magnificent Arc de Triomphe; the column to
Napoleon I; the gardens of the Tuileries; the Louvre; the Art Palace;
the Eiffel tower--just a few of the beauty spots noted in the passing
on that first day when trouble was napping.
Armand was not only able to secure one cab, but had two at his bidding.
A wonderful fellow was Armand, and much given to style.
“Here you are,” he announced with a flourish to Henri when the cabs
drew up before a handsome residence, with bronze lions crouching on the
stone rests at each side of the entrance.
It was agreed that Henri should enter alone with his precious packet,
which delivered and his trust fulfilled, he would be at liberty to seek
his mother and place in her own hands the Trouville fortune that had
been so hardly won from the iron-bound chest in the depths of the now
ruined château on the Meuse.
With heart beating high, head erect, and feeling the responsible charge
of a messenger of state, Henri applied at the entrance for admission,
and as promptly was admitted.
“Wish I had a picture of Henri receiving the medal for distinguished
conduct when he gives up the packet.”
Billy was back in his habit of expressing funny thoughts.
“It is not the house of the Premier,” said Armand, shaking his head.
“And the government is not sitting in Paris now. It is the private
residence, I am sure.”
“The private residence” is the French way of saying that you just don’t
know who does live there.
The minutes passed, and then the half hour.
“I’m glad,” remarked Billy, “that these are not taxicabs. If they were
we would have to lighten these belts to pay out.”
“There he is now!” Jimmy had sighted Henri coming out of the house.
Then:
“Why, he looks like he had just fallen off a Christmas tree.”
Henri certainly did look as if some great joy had crowned him.
“Boys, that sealed packet was all a frame-up, arranged by Captain
Johnson and that splendid gentleman at Calais. But it is simply the
finest kind of a frame-up that you could imagine.”
Henri reached out his hands to his comrades lolling in the cab.
“Come, climb out.”
Then to Armand:
“My friend, I thank you for your good company and your good service.
No--not a word.”
Henri had slipped something into Armand’s hand.
As the cabs rolled away, Henri marshaled his friends to the
lion-guarded entrance of the house.
The aforesaid friends were almost bursting with curiosity.
“Give us the tip.”
Billy prodded Henri with his elbow.
“You’ll know soon enough,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
Henri led the way into the drawing-room at the left of the entrance.
Standing there to greet them was a queenly tall gentlewoman with one of
the most sadly sweet faces that the friends of Henri had ever looked
upon.
In courtesy to the American and the English boy she addressed them in
the language they understood, somewhat haltingly, it is true, but so
graciously that they felt completely at their ease.
“So you are the brave ones who were with my boy in his every hour of
peril. Would that I could say all that I feel.”
It was Henri’s mother!
“Now you see to whom the sealed packet led me.”
Henri, drawn within his mother’s arm, went on to tell of the surprise
that met him when he first entered the house.
“I was expecting to be ushered into the presence of some stern-faced
statesman, to hand him this packet with a bow; then to receive some
word of approbation; and, then, to hurry out and hunt for mother.
“Instead of the ‘stern-faced statesman’ you now know whom I found.
The packet was addressed to C. Giraud. My mother’s maiden name was
Clementine Giraud. I never thought of putting the two together; indeed,
I never even noted the name--only the street and number. The oldest
friend of our family at Calais in this important looking document,
with its seals and ribbons, merely extended his compliments to Madame
Trouville, and wished her joy of his messenger. And another thing, it
provided the captain with authority to land us at Havre. Wasn’t that a
dandy frame-up?”
Without another word each of the three boys faced about, unbuckled and
pulled the treasure belt from beneath his blouse. Noting the action,
Henri did likewise.
Then, gently guiding his mother to a chair, where he enthroned her as a
queen, he laid the four belts in her lap.
The Trouville fortune had been saved!