Fleurette descended with quick, furtive steps, until, past the first curve of the spiral, the stairs were in total darkness. But she would have found her way all about the château blindfold, so well did she know its every nook and cranny. She came to the door and fumbled for the bolts. She had drawn one and taken off the chain, when she heard a measured tramp on the other side of the door. Steps were coming this way along the flagged path; a moment or two later they came to a halt close to the door. Fleurette hardly daring to breathe, listened. A voice said: “Did you go in there?”
“No, citizen,” replied another, “not by this door. The bolts are fastened on the inside.”
Something else was said which Fleurette did not catch, and the steps receded in the direction of the front of the house. She waited a minute or two longer, breathless and motionless, until she heard what she thought was the tramp of feet in the corridor above her. The soldiers had apparently been ordered to come round again, perhaps they would be coming down those stairs. To hesitate now might prove fatal. Fumbling once more in the gloom, Fleurette found the last bolt and drew it, and the next moment was out in the open. The back door gave on the yard. On the right were the stables, and facing the door, the riding-school and one or two sheds; on the left the kitchens and servants’ quarters. In this direction too was the great archway and the main entrance into the house. Past the archway was the park and the avenue leading to the big gates.
After a moment’s reflection Fleurette decided to avoid these main approaches: there was another way across the park, past the stable gate. Hugging the casket closely under her shawl, Fleurette set out in the direction of the stables. There was no one about and she felt comparatively safe. Night was now rapidly drawing in, and she fortunately had on a dark kirtle and dark worsted stockings. The air was very still and the waning moon not yet risen in the east. From far away came the sound of the bell of Laragne church. It struck eight. Fleurette felt a pang of anxiety. She had promised to be home before dark and Louise would be anxious and cross: and there was still something she wanted to do before she went home. Now she was past the stable door where, in a heap, just as old André had said, there lay a pile of faggots. The sight of them gave Fleurette a happy thrill. Was she not obeying the dictates of the mysterious voice which had spoken to her through the medium of the old faggot-carrier?
The next moment, a firm step resounded on the flagstones of the stables, and a second later a man appeared under the lintel of the door.
“Fleurette! what in God’s name are you doing here?”
Smothering a startled cry, Fleurette turned and found herself face to face with her father. He was standing at the stable door; his hands were clasped behind his back, and he had a tricolour sash round his waist. Now women, young girls, especially, those born and bred in outlying country districts, are credited with being stupid, silly in their fears, timorous like hens; and so no doubt would Fleurette have been in ordinary circumstances. She may not have been either clever or brave originally; she would perhaps have behaved in a silly, timorous fashion but for this one fact, that she knew that something terrible was happening to the Frontenacs whom she loved, and that she had been deputed by the bon Dieu, or merely by a human friend, to do something important for them. In order to do this she must keep her head; and trust any woman to keep her head if one she loves is in peril.
“What are you doing here, Fleurette?” Bibi reiterated rather sternly.
And Fleurette with a well-simulated nervous little laugh retorted lightly:
“Why, Bibi chéri, I might retaliate. What are you doing here? I thought you were on your way to Paris.”
“What are you doing here, Fleurette?” Bibi said once more, and Fleurette thought that his voice had never sounded so harsh before.
“But Bibi,” Fleurette said simply, “I often come to see Madame and Mademoiselle. And after you left this afternoon I felt so lonely and sad, I thought I might seek Mademoiselle Rose for company.”
“And have you seen her?”
“No. They told me Madame and Mademoiselle had gone.”
“Who told you?”
“Papa Mathieu.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Only that there were soldiers come to the château; and that I’d better go home again—and so I’m going.”
“He didn’t tell you anything else?”
“No,” Fleurette replied innocently. “Was there anything else to say?”
“No—er—no,” Bibi rejoined. “Of course not. But Fleurette—”
“Yes, Bibi darling?”
“How often must I tell you that you must not talk of ‘Madame’ and ‘Mademoiselle’? There are no Madames and Mademoiselles now; we are, all of us equally, citizens of France.”
“Yes, Bibi,” Fleurette rejoined demurely. “And I really, really am very careful when strangers are about. It doesn’t matter what I say before you, does it, chéri Bibi?”
“No, no,” Bibi muttered, seemingly without much conviction, and Fleurette then went on quickly:
“I must run home now, chéri Bibi, or Louise will be getting anxious. You are coming too, aren’t you? Louise will get you such a lovely supper and then—”
“No, my little one.” Bibi said. “I can’t. Not tonight. I must be in Orange tomorrow.”
“But Bibi—”
“Run along, child,” Bibi broke in almost fiercely. “It’s a dark night, and there are always vagabonds about.”
“Ah well then, good night, Bibi,” Fleurette murmured meekly.
“Good night, little one.”
And suddenly Bibi put out his hand and grasped Fleurette by the wrist.
“Are you not
