During the brief intervals while she had a certain consciousness of things about her, she found herself nestling against chéri Bibi’s shoulder! and when, with half-dimmed eyes she looked up at him, and tried to smile between two yawns, she always saw his pale, grave face turned away in profile, gazing straight out before him into the dark recess of the post-chaise, in which apparently they were travelling. She called softly to him once or twice, but he never turned to look at her, only his hand, which felt cold and clammy, would gently stroke her hair.
How long all this lasted, what happened to her in the intervals of sleep, Fleurette never knew, but there came a time when the chaise rattled unpleasantly over the cobblestones of a city, and lights darted to and fro through the darkness as the vehicle lumbered along through fitfully lighted streets. Fleurette sat up straight; all the sleep suddenly gone out of her eyes.
“Where are we going, chéri Bibi?” she asked. “Do you know?”
“No! I do not,” Bibi replied, and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow. “Would to God I did.”
Fleurette had never heard him invoke le bon Dieu before, and she tried through the gloom to peer into his face.
“But we are out of danger now, chéri?” she asked wide-eyed, the old terror which had caused her to lose consciousness in that awful courthouse, once more clutching at her heart.
“I do not know,” he murmured mechanically; “would to God I did.”
And then as if recalled to himself by the half-drawn sigh of terror from Fleurette, he seized hold of her, and pressed her head against his breast.
“No! No!” he said hastily, “they cannot harm you whilst I’m here to guard you.”
Just then the coach came to a halt, and a moment later the door was thrown open and a gruff voice said:
“Will you descend, citizeness?”
Fleurette, frightened, clung to Bibi. She made no attempt to move. Whereupon the gruff voice resumed:
“If you don’t come willingly, I shall have to send someone to fetch you.”
Fleurette buried her face against Bibi’s coat. His arms held her tightly. A minute, perhaps less, went by, and then—suddenly—she heard a voice—a very gentle, very timid voice this time, saying:
“Mam’zelle Fleurette! Oh, Mam’zelle Fleurette, I pray you to turn to me. It is I—Amédé.”
What had happened? Was she dreaming? Or had she died of fright and gone straight up to heaven? Certain it is that she felt a timid hand upon her shoulder, whilst Bibi’s hold upon her relaxed.
“Hold up the lantern, man,” the gruff voice now broke in upon the delicious silence that ensued, “and let her see that she is not dreaming.”
The light of a lantern flashed across Fleurette’s eyes, she opened them and turned her head, and found herself gazing on M’sieu’ Amédé’s pink and moist face, into his kind eyes full of anxiety and of tenderness, upon his mouth which had taught her how to kiss. Gently, slowly, she extricated herself from Bibi’s embrace. Gently, slowly she seemed to glide into Amédé’s arms.
He carried her whither she knew not. All she knew was that presently she found herself snuggling in a deep, cosy armchair, and that Amédé was kneeling beside her, with his eyes fixed ecstatically upon her as if she were la sainte Vierge herself.
“Where am I, dear M’sieu’ Amédé?” she asked.
“At Ste. Césaire, Mam’zelle Fleurette,” he replied.
“Where is that?”
“Just outside Nîmes. Your chaise passed through the streets of Nîmes.”
“I daresay,” she said with a tired little sigh. “I was so sleepy; I didn’t know where we were.”
“We are under the protection of the bravest men that ever lived,” Amédé said slowly. “They saved me from death. They have saved you, Mam’zelle Fleurette.”
A shudder went through her. She closed her eyes as if to try and shut away the awful visions which his words had conjured up. But his kind, strong arms encircled her closer, and she nestled against him and once again felt comforted and safe. He told her the entire odyssey of his rescue, from the hour when the mock soldiers entered his father’s shop at Laragne, until when his brave rescuers took leave of him outside the derelict cottage by the banks of the Drôme, and he, seeing the pale crescent of the moon rise above the snow-capped crest of La Lance, had solemnly bowed nine times, praying for that joy which today was his at last.
He had spent a few very lonely days in the cottage after that, devoured with anxiety as to the fate of his beloved. He could not eat, he could not sleep. For hours he would watch the filmy crescent of the moon, whose pale light mayhap illumined the window behind which his own Fleurette would also be watching and praying. And three days ago he received the message which he was waiting for. It appeared mysteriously early one morning outside the cottage door. A missive, with a stone put upon it to prevent its being blown away by the wind. How it got there Amédé never knew. It came from the leader of that gallant little league of Englishmen who devoted their lives to helping those in distress. In it he, Amédé, was ordered to walk as far as Crest, to the house of Citizen Marcor the farrier, where he could hire a horse. And then to hie him straightway hither to Ste. Césaire, not sleeping in any wayside inn, but rather in the fields, under shelter of hedges or forest trees, getting food for himself and his horse as best he could. The missive further directed him, on arriving at Ste. Césaire, to seek out an empty house situated in the Rue Basse, and there to wait, for of a surety within two days he would hold his beloved Fleurette in his arms. Amédé had obeyed these commands to the letter. This very morning he had
