Part 4

“Why, where have you been, darling?” asks Mrs. McAllister, suddenly remembering her, now that Darwin is disposed of.

“Me did do to find mo’ bewies.”

What with laving her forehead, and the fanning, and the cool drink, Bessie soon revives. “She had got down a good ways when I saw her first. I had to follow so still, for fear of frightening her.” So she explains. “It was her hat that lay here made me think to look down.”

“What does it mean?” “What has happened?” “Did she faint away?” ask one and another, hurrying up; for all but the two witnesses are still ignorant of that fearful scene.

“You tell them, Harry,” says Kate; “tell it to them all! tell it to them all! We’ll have it put in the morning papers. We’ll trumpet it from the house-tops and the corners of the streets.” And hugging the little girl, “Ah, my sweet, you needn’t blush so! I mean they shall appreciate you.”

And noting the cries of wonder and admiration which follow the boy’s announcements, and the crowd that presses around her shy little friend, and cannot make enough of her, Mademoiselle is overheard saying softly to herself: “Why one can be brave, even in these days.”

[1] The red hats worn by cardinals.

THE OLD MONSIEUR’S STORY.

“Lieutenant, they want I should ask you for a story.”

“They” are the dozen or more of lads and lasses who, in the pleasant summer twilights, have frequently been seen, as now, gathered before the house where the blind soldier lives. The sparrows soon learn to know that door or window where they are welcome, and where crumbs are scattered for them. They flock about it, fearless, chirping cheerily, and make themselves at home there. Thus these stone steps leading up to the porch have become a favorite resort of the youngsters of the neighborhood; for here they may meet unmolested, and chatter and laugh to their hearts’ content; here crumbs, in the shape of stories, are now and then thrown out for bait; and partly they may be drawn hither by the presence of the amused listener to their random talk; tacitly understanding that to him, who is denied the sight of their bright young faces, the sound of their clear young voices is doubly sweet. But he is not the only one who is entertained. Sometimes one of his older friends will join the merry group—often the venerable Frenchman who resides across the street. It so happens that he approaches just now, as Harry is making that time-worn request—“a story”; and the other says, “I think that is Monsieur, coming? Perhaps _he_ will tell us one.”

“Yes, now, grandpapa,” coaxes Marie, “tell us about Gabrielle.”

“_Bien_,” and he accepts the proffered arm-chair; “I will tell, then, the story of Gabrielle.

“Without doubt, my dear children, some of you have heard of that event in the history of France which is termed the Revolution? I do not speak of those more recent troubles which have distracted my native land, but of that memorable Revolution which blackened the closing years of the last century—a period at which you gaze as upon a sky filled with the darkness of clouds, and the threatening thunder, and the fierce lightning-flashes.

“Ah, my children, you are happy to be of a nation which has not that wild and horrible dream to remember. And here I will say to you, I, that you are truly fortunate to live in a land most free, where there is less of oppression than in any other; where one can say what he will, do what he will. If but he keep the laws he is secure. He may be of whatever party he chooses. Nobody is going to harm him. He may, if so ill-disposed, say whatever _désagréables_ he please of those who believe not as he. He will not be obliged to fly and to take refuge among strangers, as I myself, long time ago, for that, in company with others, I preferred a king to an emperor, and was not sufficiently secret about it. Deserving, indeed, of gratitude are they who, defending this beautiful country, have preserved to it peace and freedom.

“Alas! if poor France had not been for so long burdened with oppressions, this Revolution could not have occurred. That was the reaction, the recoil. Let me illustrate. I will remove from my pocket-book this band elastic which confines it. I stretch it with my two hands to its full length. With one hand I release it. It flies back. Ugh! it makes me wince. (That is a very homely illustration, is it not?) Now for a long time the nations of Europe had been engaged in wars in which France took a leading part. It requires money to conduct wars. To procure it the people are taxed. Also, there was no court so gay and luxurious as that of France. To support this luxury and splendor required money. Still again taxes. When taxes are great the cost of living is increased. Thus while there was feasting and revelry in palaces, in hovels there was famine and misery. The little ones moaned and sobbed for bread, and there was no bread to give them. The people were full of wrath at this state of affairs. Force was required to keep them in subjection. Now there came to the throne a good and merciful king, who in peaceful times would have been much revered. But, in this situation, great wisdom as well as justice was needful. From his unsteady grasp the reins of government slipped, as you have seen the elastic slip from mine. Behold the recoil—most terrible!—which destroyed the king, the queen, and all who believed in the royalist cause. The people who had so long suffered might now take revenge. They who had yearned for liberty were filled with hope. Their land was to be free, like that one beyond the ocean.

“Alas! the despotism which had been called a monarchy was succeeded by a despotism far worse, which was called a republic. This was truly the Reign of Terror. The guillotine was never idle. ‘Madame Guillotine,’ it was entitled—that deadly machine invented for those days, when victims were so numerous it was necessary that they be dispatched in the swiftest manner possible. This cruel slaughter was chiefly confined to the metropolis, to Paris, until here a province and there a city, disapproving of their deeds, refused submission to the party in power—the Jacobins. Armies were sent to subdue them. The city of Lyons made the resistance most notable. Thousands of royalists, fleeing for their lives, had taken shelter there, and were zealous in the defense. They hoped by this resistance to inspire other towns, and perhaps all France, to arise and check the course of this Revolution—this monster, ever thirsting for blood. Alas! it was impossible. Besieged by the republican troops, all supplies prevented, for lack of food and ammunition the city was at length obliged to surrender, after a brave and desperate struggle. For any who had taken up arms against the republic there was now no safety but in flight. Flight was nearly useless. They were pursued, captured. The country was searched for leagues around. Within the city, paid informers were everywhere seeking whom they might report as guilty. For the head of a priest or noble the price was doubled. The prisons were filled, crowded. Madame Guillotine could not work sufficiently fast. The Reign of Terror had now begun in Lyons also.

“I must not pain you, dear children, with a recital of the horrors of those days.

“Among the unfortunate royalists who had taken shelter in Lyons was the Marquis de Rochemont. In one of the fierce conflicts during the siege he had been seriously wounded, and at the time of the surrender was unable to attempt an escape. Nevertheless, he had taken the precaution to remove from his former quarters, and had established himself in a garret of a lofty but dilapidated tenement facing upon an unfrequented court-yard. There concealed, in a manner which would least betoken his rank, his sole companions his motherless little daughter and a faithful servant, he thought to avoid the vigilance of the spies. Often, from his hiding-place, he would hear the explosions of gunpowder, followed by the crash of falling buildings.

“What were those buildings?

“The residences or the property of Lyonnese, who had engaged in the defense. The Jacobins, in their fury, were reducing the city to ruins.

“One evening, as the attendant was dressing his wounds, the Marquis asked, ‘What is the matter, Antoine? you are pale. Your hands tremble.’

“The other responded; ‘Just now, as I came up the stairs, I saw some person listening and peering at the key-hole. As I approached he glided away. It is enough. I fear we are discovered.’

“After discussing this matter it was decided that Antoine go out, and obtain, if possible, a uniform like that worn by the soldiers of the republic. Disguised in this, the Marquis would depart in the night, and await in a forest not far from the city, there to be joined by the servant with the child, and to proceed thence toward the mountains and the country of the Swiss, where there were relatives and friends who had quitted France upon the fall of the king.

“Scarcely had Antoine set forth upon that errand when two _gens d’armes_ appeared. They had come to arrest the Marquis. To be arrested, that was the cell, the mock trial. After these—the scaffold. Had they come in the name of law and order he would have resigned himself to that fate. They came in the name of disorder and opposition to law. _Bien!_ Disabled as he was, rising, he drew his sword. They supposed to overpower him. Sword met sword. The hunted stag brought to bay is dangerous. One of those intruders was slain. The other, wounded, fled. Soon he would return with assistance; accompanied, perhaps, by the mob. No time was to be lost.

“Seizing his little daughter, who had been a terrified witness of that scene, the Marquis hastened away, along a low passage leading to the stairs. A ray of the moon lighted an apartment as he passed. He saw through the open door heaps of rags. The ragman lay sleeping in their midst. Near by were his tattered coat, his wooden shoes, his greasy cap, his basket. The basket was furnished with a lid. One thinks rapidly on such occasions. The Marquis entered, arrayed himself in the coat, the cap, the shoes, forgetting not to leave some gold coins in their place, as compensation. The basket would contain the child.

“‘Fear not, my little Gabrielle,’ he said, as he concealed her in it, ‘but remain quiet while I carry thee away where those terrible men cannot find us.’

“With this basket upon his head, thus shadowing his face, he descended through the building to an entrance in the rear, which opened upon an alley. There he hurried along. Already he could hear the shouts and cries of people gathering in the court-yard. He quickened his steps. Not far distant was the bridge which spans the Rhone. He arrived there without interruption. To proceed, to attempt to traverse the extensive plains beyond? Already, doubtless, pursuers were upon his track. In no disguise was there security. At the same time the earth seemed to be whirling about. There was a ringing in his ears. He saw some boats upon the bank below. He approached and shoved one of them into the water. He lifted Gabrielle from her concealment and placed her in it. He then rowed out into the midst of the river. There, no need of oars. The current is swift, strong. It rushed with them away from danger and the doomed city. He laid himself down in the bottom of the boat. In the moonbeams Gabrielle saw his face very white. She saw his lips move. His hands reached out to her. She crept to him. Then all was silent. ‘He sleeps,’ she said. Soon she slept also.

“When Gabrielle opened again her eyes the sun was shining; the boat was no longer afloat, but lodged on the sands under willow trees. A rough voice was saying, ‘What’s this?’ and Gabrielle saw a man in rough clothes bending over.

“‘It is my father,’ she said. ‘He is very weary. That is why he sleeps so long. You must not wake him.’

“‘That would be difficult,’ muttered the voice.

“True. The Marquis had received a sword-thrust in that encounter with the _gens d’armes_, and had expired from loss of blood.

“The rough man went away to a cluster of cottages near by. Soon he returned with several people, men and women. One of the latter offered sweet-cakes to Gabrielle. She had a pleasant face, too, but there were tears in her eyes. Gabrielle was hungry. When the sweet-cakes were gone she asked for more.

“‘If you will come with me to my house,’ said the good woman, ‘I will give you all you wish.’

“Gabrielle went home with her. After the dame had amused her some hours she desired to return to the boat. Her father was not there.

“‘Where is he?’ she demanded, weeping.

“The good dame pointed to a mound with the soil fresh upon it. ‘When people sleep a very long time,’ she said, ‘they always are laid to rest in such places. They sleep better there. No one can disturb them. Once I had a little girl who is sleeping thus. I miss her. Will _you_ be my little girl?’

“‘Yes,’ answered Gabrielle, ‘until she wakens and my father wakens. Then I will have mine, I, and you will have your own.’

“After, she learned better to understand those matters. Also, as she grew older, she learned to be very useful. She could drive the cow from the pasture and assist in tending the garden. She could make the soup, the bread. She learned to sew, to knit, and to spin. Sometimes she heard them talk of a wonderful person upon the throne, who was conquering all the world. They called him Napoleon. The Revolution was finished. France was no longer a republic.

“One day, as Gabrielle stood at her spinning-wheel before the door, two travelers rode by. One of them gazed at her attentively. He addressed a few words to the other. They halted and accosted a villager who was passing.

“‘Who is that young girl?’ they asked.

“The villager—it was he with the rough voice—related how the waves had brought her to them, how that he had found her—a sleeping child in the arms of the dead. ‘The man was clad in rags,’ said he, ‘but he was provided with a purse containing much gold, and with a sword.’

“‘It is true,’ said the stranger who had first observed Gabrielle, and who seemed to be the attendant. ‘There was a collector of rags who lodged near us, and who in the crowd, after the escape of my master, complained of the loss of his coat.’

“They requested to see the sword. When it was shown to them, the attendant said, ‘It is the sword of the Marquis. I recognize it by the carving of the hilt.’ Then gazing once more at Gabrielle, he exclaimed, ‘How she is like her mother!’ (She had grown very beautiful.)

“He approached, and seizing her hands, covered them with kisses and with tears. ‘Dost thou not remember me?’ he asked, ‘me, old Antoine?’

“She had not forgotten entirely of that Antoine.

“‘And I,’ said the other, embracing her, ‘I am thy father’s brother. It is a long time that we have searched and made inquiry for thee.’

“It was my grandfather. He took her far away to his home. But the good dame was presented with the purse, filled with gold, which she had been keeping for Gabrielle’s dowry.

“And the sword? My dear children, if any of you have intention to some time visit France, I can indicate where you will find an ancient chateau, in which is a gallery—a place of armor—where, among shields, and helmets, and coats of mail, and spears, and tattered banners, and other relics of past centuries, still is to be seen this sword. It was Gabrielle herself who pointed it out to me, many years ago, when I was a young boy like Master Harry, and she was a marchioness, and presided over the same chateau. And she it was who at the same time told me this story.”

BUTTERNUT AND BLUE.

“Mr. Walter, where did you find this great, nice, beautiful dog?” asks Marie, who has been having a romp around the room with Ponto.

“I didn’t find him; he came to me.”

“Came to you! Oh, now there’s some story about him! And you are going to tell it to me?”

“No, Marie, it’s all about a battle. Girls don’t like to hear about battles.”

“Oh, yes, they do, sometimes. And you know you never will tell us anything about the war;—does he, Katy?”

But Katy has quietly left the room.

“Well, Marie, once I woke up after a battle, and something, I couldn’t see what, was tugging at my coat. There was a sun in the sky the last I could remember. Now it was night, and a very dark night. I reached out to feel what sort of creature this was. Then I first discovered that my right hand was gone. But with the other I could feel the head and long silken ears of a dog. He seemed pleased to have me notice him, licked my face, and gamboled about, then commenced to tug at my clothes again. He seemed to want something of me. I finally got up and tried to follow him—tried, I say, because it is no easy matter to walk about the field of battle the night after it has taken place. One is apt to find obstacles in his way. As I groped along, and my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could just distinguish from the surrounding shadows the figure of this strange guide of mine. It was a monster of a dog—a black, moving mass. I had known of one other like him. An idea occurred to me. Perhaps this and that dog were the same. That dog’s name was Ponto. So I called—‘Ponto?’ to try him. Back he came bounding, directly, leaping upon me, and seemed quite delighted. I was pretty certain this was the dog I knew. As I went along talking to him, some one spoke from among the shadows—‘Is that you, Walt?’ There was only one person who had been wont to address me after that fashion. He had recognized _my_ voice. Now I recognized _his_. And it would have been strange, surely, if we had not known each other’s voice. We were together at college for four years, and great friends—‘most intimate,’ that is the expression, I believe. I sometimes went home and spent vacation with him. (He lived in Virginia, among the mountains.) And sometimes he came home with me. You would hardly remember him; yet, when a very small carriage, containing a very small child, used to stop at our door, he was always on hand to lift out that little Mademoiselle and bring her in—only a dainty bundle of embroideries, apparently, till two bright eyes peeped forth, and pretty soon two little pink fists that would get at his hair and pull it, and _that_ used to tickle him immensely. Yes, as I said, we were the best of friends. Then suddenly there was a great gulf between us; and we saw, and heard, and knew no more of each other. It appears that, though we were not aware of it, we had been fighting against each other that very day. But now Ponto had brought us together again, and we were glad enough to meet. So glad we could forget, at last, that he belonged to the army of the South, and I to the army of the Union. We had a great many matters to talk over, not having seen each other in some time. Ah, but we _couldn’t_ see, as you know. So we had to be content with saying our farewells in the dark. For that was the way our talk ended, Marie. He passed away, there in the night, I supporting him as best I could. Ponto was his dying gift. Come here, old fellow.” And the Lieutenant hides his face against the dog’s shaggy shoulder.

Marie steals softly from the house and toward home. And when, a moment after, Kate comes down the hall stairs and into the room, Ponto lifts to her great, gentle, human, sympathizing eyes. Perhaps he guesses she, too, has a share in those remembrances. For who shall deny that he has thoughts?

A SECRET.

“Why, _you_, Harry? I didn’t know you had come home!” Kate, glancing up from the book from which she had been reading aloud, has only at this moment noticed the boy’s entrance.

“I haven’t been home yet. I wanted to consult you first. You see I’m expelled.” (Harry, you must know, has been away at school since early in September.) “Thought I’d tell you on the start, so you wouldn’t feel imposed upon. Why, you take it all as a matter of course! You don’t look a bit surprised!’

“To tell the truth, we’re _not_ very. And how do you do, you blessed boy? You don’t know how we’ve missed you!” And Kate seizes his two hands with a heartiness that proves her faith in him is still unshaken.

“Miss Katy! if you’ve got a particle of respect left for me, won’t you give me some supper? I’m hungry as a bear. Just got in on the train. Haven’t had a mouthful to eat since noon!”

“The poor child! So he _should_ have some supper. I’ll go directly and see about it.”

“This was the way it happened,” Harry explains, over the waffles and coffee. “You see, when I first went there the boys were a solemncholy lot, oh, I tell you! studious as owls, got to improve each shining hour, and all that. Well, I thought if that sort of thing was going to last I shouldn’t survive long. So I went to work and got ’em stirred up after awhile, and things got to be kind of lively. But Tabby—that’s the Principal—the way he hangs his eye out’s a caution. Oh, no, Miss Katy; that’s only a nickname we gave him; he’s got such a cattish way of prowling around nights to see if there’s any doings going on. Anything but a sneak! Well, I thought I’d be even with ’im; so last night I laid torpedoes all along the hall; oh, Miss Katy, nothing but those little paper wads that never hurt anybody in the world. Well, the last bell rung and we put out the lights, and lay still and listened. By’n by—pop! pop! pop! Tabby was coming to see if everything was all right. Ha, ha! guess his moccasins must ’ave run against every identical one. You’d ’ave thought he was having a Fourth of July celebration out there all by himself. But wasn’t he hoppin’ mad, though! Called me into the study this morning right after breakfast.”

“‘Did you place those torpedoes in the hall last night?’ says he.

“‘Yes, sir,’ says I.

“‘What was your object?’

“‘Fun,’ says I.

“Well, he gave me a long lecture, said he didn’t like my influence in the school, that he’d had more trouble during the few weeks I’d been there than in any five years before. Well, the long an’ short of it was I’d got to leave. That was just what I wanted. So off I come, and here I am, with a letter for father in my pocket that gives me an awful setting out, I expect.” (Harry’s countenance grows suddenly grave.) “I wouldn’t care if it was only father I’d got to chalk up to; but Aunt Sophi’!” (No use trying to describe the tone in which that name is uttered.) “I thought, Katy—I thought, maybe you’d be willing to go over there, and—well, kind of talk her around, you know—why, kind of smooth matters, that is, so she won’t be quite so hard on a fellow. Won’t you, now? If you will I’ll go back there to old Williams, and I’ll study like anything! I will, now, and behave myself; oh, you shall see! if you’ll only go this once.”

Kate doesn’t like to get up a reputation for being meddlesome; but she recalls how kind and attentive this boy has been to her brother, and it is not in her heart to refuse. So she leaves the two chatting by the fireside and crosses the street to spend an evening with Aunt Sophia.

“I don’t know what possesses me, sometimes,” says Harry, at length, waxing confidential as usually when alone with the Lieutenant. “I believe it’s the Old Nick! I was always getting into scrapes ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Now, some fellows find it smooth sailing all along, never get into trouble. I wonder why?”

“Perhaps they are not so blessed with animal spirits.”

“Well, I don’t see how it’s to be called a blessing.”