From seeing Monsieur sitting there, the beautiful long-stemmed wineglass in his hand, his face quite serene, you would have thought that he had heard nothing of the turmoil on the stairs. But he had heard everything, the tramping of feet, the rough voices, the curt command to open in the name of the Republic. He knew what was coming. Perhaps he had expected it long ago. It was well to be prepared for anything these days. Anyway, there he sat, glass in hand, his elbow resting on the table, where Mathieu had but a few minutes ago been engaged in clearing away the dessert. At the rude entry made by all those ragamuffins into his beautifully ordered dining-room, he just turned his head and looked at the men.
“In the name of the Republic,” the man with the sash said curtly.
Monsieur put his glass down and rose slowly to his feet:
“What is it you want?” he asked quietly.
“The rest of the family, first of all,” the man with the sash replied. “I want you all here together.”
“Madame de Frontenac and my daughter Rose are not at home,” said Monsieur, still speaking very quietly.
“That’s a lie,” the other retorted. “They were at meal here with you.”
And with careless finger he pointed to the serviettes and plates which still littered the table. Monsieur did not wince under the insult; nor was the saying of such a brigand an insult to so high-minded a gentleman as Monsieur. All he said was:
“That is so. Madame and Mile de Frontenac were at dinner with me, until half an hour ago when they left the house together.”
“Whither did they go?”
“That I do not know.”
“Which is another lie.”
“If I did know,” Monsieur rejoined imperturbably, “I would not tell you.”
“We’ll soon see about that,” the man with the sash said grimly. He then turned to the soldier who appeared to be in command over the others: “Allons! citizen lieutenant,” he said curtly, “the rest is your business. The two women have got to be found. That is the first thing, after that we shall see.”
The officer then ordered two of his men to stand on guard over Monsieur, and since then the tramp, tramp of the soldiers’ feet had resounded throughout the château. Upstairs they went, and downstairs; in Madame’s room and in Mademoiselle’s, in the kitchen, the stables, the offices. They interrogated the men, they bullied the women; they turned everything topsy-turvy; they raked about in the hay and the straw of the stables, they scoured the park, they glued their ugly, dirty noses to the sanded paths, to try and find the imprint of footsteps. But neither of Madame or of Mademoiselle had they yet found a trace. They were still at it, raking and scouring and searching. In the intervals they tried to browbeat Monsieur, threatening him with summary shooting one moment, which only made him laugh and shrug his shoulders, and promising him immunity for his women-folk if he would say where they could be found. But these promises only made Monsieur laugh and again shrug his shoulders.
“Immunity?” he said. “They have that already, thank God! for they are beyond your reach now. If they were not, do you think I would trust to your promises?”
Old Mathieu paused. The story had neared its end:—this tale of woe and anxiety and horror, such as the worthy old man had never thought to see. The others had not much to say; the maids were still crying, with excitement rather than with grief, and the old men had stared open-mouthed, or sagely nodded their heads.
“Then,” Fleurette put in at last, “Madame and Mademoiselle have gone. Really—really gone?”
Mathieu nodded with another sigh, half of perplexity, half of woe.
“But whither?” Fleurette insisted. “How? Why?”
“God alone knows, Mam’zelle,” papa averred. “He has spirited Madame and Mademoiselle away to save them from these brigands.”
“Did anybody see them go?”
Men and maids shook their heads. No one had seen Madame or Mademoiselle go. Old Mathieu was the last to have seen the ladies. He had just begun to clear the table, when they rose, and, as was their custom, went through to the boudoir. Mathieu had opened the door for them. And now he came to think of it, the ladies had each kissed Monsieur very tenderly before they went out of the room. Yes! the kiss had seemed like a farewell. Mathieu shook his head dolefully: he remembered it now, but hadn’t thought anything about it at the moment. Monsieur certainly appeared more thoughtful. Usually, while he drank his last glass of wine and Mathieu was engaged in washing the silver in the large copper bowl which he always brought into the room for that purpose, Monsieur would chat with him, talk over the gossip of the day. But tonight he had been unusually silent. Yes! Mathieu now remembered quite distinctly about the kiss, and about Monsieur being so silent. But he certainly had noticed nothing else unusual, until the moment when those brigands banged at the door and demanded admittance in the name of their godless Republic.
Mathieu was on the stairs at that moment, so he did not know how Monsieur had looked when he heard all the tramping and the noise. But Madame and Mademoiselle were gone, of that there could be no doubt. The brigands had searched for them, like so many dogs digging for a bone, and not a trace was there of the two ladies, for the bon Dieu, no doubt, had made them invisible.
Of old Mathieu and the staff, the officer in command took no notice, after he had summarily ordered them to muster
