“Come, child,” she said dryly after a while, “we’ll go down now and get something to eat.”
She had never ceased to protest against the madness of this adventure, prophesying every kind of calamity for them both: but Fleurette with the quiet obstinacy of the habitually meek had persisted. She had begun by wheedling the money out of Louise, then obtained the passes for places in the coche. Once on the way, it would of course have been ridiculous to turn tail and go back, and Louise, led unconsciously by a force of will stronger than her own, had found herself meekly acquiescing in all the arrangements which Fleurette made on the way. As a matter of fact she had not ceased to marvel at the child. Here was this young thing, who had never travelled in a coche before, who had never in her life been further than Serres and Sisteron, calmly undertaking a three days’ journey, sleeping and eating in strange inns, and arriving at her destination unscathed. There certainly was a miracle in all this good luck, for old Louise had heard many a tale of what terrible adventures usually befell unprotected females upon the high roads. What she did not realize was that the miracle merely consisted in the fact that in these outlying corners of beautiful France, in Dauphiné and in Provence, there was still plenty of the good old kindly stock left, some of the chivalry, the warmth of heart, the bonhomie, which all the tyranny and the cruelty perpetrated in the great cities had not contrived to kill; and that there was something in Fleurette’s beauty, her simplicity as well as her determination, which brought forth that chivalry and bonhomie and helped her to win through.
When the two women returned to the parlour where hot milk and country bread awaited them, they were met by a young soldier, who very politely and deferentially claimed acquaintance with them.
“You would not remember me, citizeness,” he said more particularly addressing Fleurette, “but I and some very weary soldiers under my command, are deeply indebted to you for your kindness to us, when, like a good Samaritan, you gave us food and drink, on the bridge near your home. Do you remember?”
He looked very bedraggled and out-at-elbows, but frank and kind. Fleurette raised shy, blue eyes up to his, and gave a little gasp of recognition. She well remembered the soldier. She remembered how sorry she had been for them all, in their shabby clothes and stockingless feet, weary and thirsty, and how she had sent Adèle out to them with food and drink. She also remembered, though she would not remind him of that, that he had been very curt and uncivil with her, had made a sneering remark when she told him that she was Citizen Armand’s daughter, and also that the men under his command had been positively cruel to a poor inoffensive old man whom she afterwards befriended.
However, for the moment, she was perhaps conscious of a slight feeling of relief at sight of a familiar face; she had seen nothing but strangers ever since she left Laragne four days ago. So when the soldier, still speaking quite deferentially, reiterated his: “Do you remember?” she replied simply: “Of course I do, citizen lieutenant.” Which goes to prove that Fleurette had learned a great deal in the past three days, and the word “citizen” now came quite glibly to her tongue.
Lieutenant Godet had told her his name, told her that he was a native of Orange and was home on leave for a few days.
“A real piece of luck,” he went on lightly, “seeing that perhaps I might be of service to you.”
The two women sat down at the table and he helped to wait on them, brought them bread and cheese and a jug of hot milk, and bustled the maid of the inn if the latter appeared negligent. He made himself very agreeable to Louise, talked of his own journey, and inquired after her adventures. Louise, despite her innate suspicion of soldiers, gradually unbent to him. The warm food further put her into a good temper, and presently the three of them were conversing in the most amicable manner.
When the meal had been duly paid for, the soldier once more offered his services. Could he pilot the citizenesses through the town?
“Well yes, you can,” Louise said resolutely, “we want to find M’sieu’ Armand.”
“Citizen Armand,” Fleurette broke in, “my father. I think you know him, citizen lieutenant.”
“Know him?” he exclaimed, “of course I know Armand. Who does not know Citizen Armand in Orange?”
“Then he is here now?” Fleurette cried eagerly.
“Of a surety he is.”
“You know where he lodges?”
“Everyone in Orange knows where Citizen Armand lodges.”
“Then you can take me to him?”
“At your service, citizeness.”
“Now?”
“When you wish.”
With a little cry of delight Fleurette gathered up her cloak.
“Let us go,” she said simply.
Louise sighing, but stolid, followed meekly. The thought that she would soon relinquish her wayward charge into the keeping of M’sieu’ Armand was a comforting one; Fleurette was tripping it gaily beside the soldier, but the latter’s dirty clothes and bedraggled appearance still filled old Louise with mistrust.
They crossed the river by the old bridge and then trudged along the dusty streets to a great open place, now called Place de la République. The soldier led the way across the square to a tall stone building, flanked by a square tower, to which a flight of steps gave access. He seemed to know his way about. At the top of the steps a couple
