Dian had reached the gates of Paris and passed through. Though he did not in any way realize it, it was a remarkable thing that he had done. There had been a slight scrimmage among a flock of sheep at the west barrier when he came up to it, and much shouting and bad language had ensued. The guards at the gates were stupid, bad-tempered men, and they berated the market farmers loudly. Dian had called out to the flock in the tones so well known by his own sheep at home in Pigeon Valley. He knew well that the sheep would listen to him, and in an instant it seemed as though all the wild disorder among them had never been. They passed through the gates, and Dian went with them. There was no one in the motley crowd who did not think that he was their shepherd except the men who owned them, and they were glad enough to be out of the brawl! It had been easy enough to get into Paris, and Dian, with his simple faith, felt that when the right time came it would be easy to get out again.

His journey had not been difficult for he was used to every kind of weather and he loved the wind and the snow. He rested whenever he was tired, and he never minded sleeping in the corner of a barn, with his warm cloak wrapped snugly about him. He had brought food in his wallet, and whenever he had thought it wise, he had asked for a glass of warm milk. He walked with long strides, knowing well how to save himself unnecessary fatigue, and he thought not at all about his own welfare. He had never been in a city before in all his life, and had never seen large numbers of people together, and as he stood quietly on a street corner watching the wild tide of life that swept past him, he wondered greatly.

He had a hard task before him. He was thinking how best to perform it, as he stood in the shadow of a gabled shop door on this dark, brooding day. It was less than a week since Lisle had been carried away from his home and Humphrey Trail had brought Rosanne to be a friend to Vivi. To find Lisle’s home was Dian’s task, and he wanted to do it without asking questions of any one. He took out a faded, leather wallet from an inner pocket of the smock which he wore under his cloak. Standing so that the light fell upon the wallet, he took from it a long folded piece of thin paper, which he opened and examined. It was the plan of a street and a house. He stood for a long time there in the shadow looking at it closely. It was traced in black ink delicately but distinctly. After he had looked at it for some time, he folded it up and put it back in the wallet, and then put the wallet in the inner pocket of his smock again.

Some one bumped against him in passing. It was a farmer’s lad with a sack of potatoes over his shoulder. They were close to the gates and the market carts were drawn up in rows near by, looking ghostly in the cold morning fog. The boy had an honest face, and Dian was moved to speak to him.

“It is a bleak winter day,” he volunteered, and the boy answered snappily:

“There’s no sense in bringing in produce these mornings. Wait till spring, I tell the master. Then there will be lettuces and cucumbers, something worth while; though there won’t be so many to enjoy them as last spring, I’m thinking.” The boy spoke significantly, meaning that many of the rich aristocrats, who had enjoyed the market dainties, were now in prison or had already been executed.

“Have you served many of the great houses with your master’s produce?” Dian asked the boy.

“Bless you, of a surety! There are none of the big houses that I do not know. All of Saint Germain has tasted our lettuces and our young carrots. But that’s all passed now; their day is gone. You look as though you knew a farm well yourself, and as though you did not feel too well acquainted with the city.” He eyed Dian frankly, but not impudently, as he spoke.

“Yes, I am new to the city and I confess that I would be glad of company. Would you not like to stroll about for a while? This does not seem to be a cheerful part of town. Let us take a look elsewhere.”

Dian had the rare gift of reading faces. He had felt, when he first saw the farmer’s boy, that he was to be trusted and that he was merry and honest of heart. He was very well content when the boy replied that he would like to go about for a while, and he did not have to report to his master until late afternoon. The two started off together, keeping along the quieter streets, and walking rapidly until they came to the great square facing the one-time Tuileries palace.

As they stood there in the great square, they could see the black, sinister guillotine in the distance. Dian shut his eyes and stood for a few moments with his head bowed over his clasped hands. He was giving thanks for the long, warm summer days, the comfort of the stars at night, and the confidence of his sheep as he led them home at sundown. The noise of the city was all about him. Wild voices were singing the “Ça Ira,” the song of the revolution, rough, ragged groups of men and women in scarlet caps jostled past him. There were sounds of pounding and hammering everywhere, and he could hear the clanging of anvils from near-by forges. All over the city, these forges had sprung up over night, to make weapons for the people.

They walked the great length of the square and, except for a curious glance or so at Dian because of his red locks and his great stature, no one noticed them at all. They kept in the midst of the crowd going up the rue Saint HonorÉ. The tri-color ribbons and the gay red caps of the half-starved crowds made splashes of brilliance through the greyness. The farm boy touched Dian’s arm.

“Listen,” he said and his voice sank almost to a whisper. “Listen! I hear the roar of the tumbrils. They are coming this way. They almost always do. I have seen them before.” He caught Dian’s arm as he spoke, and Dian could feel him trembling.

The shepherd laid his hand on the lad’s arm. “Let us come away from all this. I do not want to see them. I cannot help them by seeing them.”

“Do you want to help them?” the boy asked.

“I want to help everyone,” Dian answered.

They walked down a side street, away from the rue Saint HonorÉ, but the roar of the tumbrils followed them for a long time. Dian was sad at heart. He knew too well that for long centuries the people of France had been kept down and abused and embittered by the tyranny and injustice of the nobles, but he knew also that every day many innocent people were going to their death in the great square, that the revolution no longer had any dignity, no longer was a striving for justice and equal rights for all. It had grown to be a nightmare of wild, undisciplined horror. Dian was in earnest when he said that he wanted to help everyone—Grigge as well as Lisle. He wanted it more than anything else in all the world.

As they walked, the boy told Dian that his name was Raoul, and that he came into the city once a week with his master. He said that they always stayed over night, at lodgings above a seed shop near the west barrier, and returned to the country the following day. They walked on until they came in sight of the Bois, a dark blur against the winter sky. The Bois is a wood in the heart of Paris. It had the same charm and mystery about it then that it has to-day. Dian stood looking at it, thinking of what Neville had told him of the gay coaching parties and promenades and daily drives in their gilded coaches of the Saint FrÈres and other families of the nobility. They were all gone now, these same families, hiding for their lives.

Dian knew the Saint FrÈre house as soon as he saw it, not so much by the plan he had, which would help him more in finding his way about inside, as by an engraving which he had seen in the study of the old Comte Saint FrÈre at Les Vignes. It was not difficult to distinguish it from the other great houses near it. There was something medieval and different about it. Indeed, there was no house in all of Paris quite so old.

He did not speak of the house to Raoul, as they passed by it. They had a modest meal of coffee and bread for a few sous at a stand near the farmer boy’s lodgings. Then Dian went with him as far as the seed shop and there they bid each other good-by. Raoul said that he was glad to have met him, for he was timid about going alone in the streets while the city was in such a turmoil, and it was good to have the company of one who, like himself, knew the country and farm ways. Dian answered that he would know how to find him at his lodgings. The boy assured him that he could always be found there on Thursdays, unless the weather was so bad that his master gave up coming into Paris.

As he walked away from the seed shop, Dian felt deeply grateful that he had become acquainted with the farmer’s boy, Raoul. He would be coming and going out of Paris every week. That in itself was something to remember. It was growing dark, and the shepherd walked slowly back by the way which he had taken earlier in the day with Raoul, past the Bois to the Saint FrÈre house. A small part of his task had already been accomplished. He had found the Saint FrÈre house. The next thing was to enter it. This would be an easy enough task if the comtesse were at home, but something told Dian that she was not.

It was so dark by the time he reached its gates that he could see the house only vaguely. A fine sleet was falling, and there was something sad about the aspect of the whole place. Dian walked up the marble steps to the great iron door and pulled the silken cord. He heard a loud clang echoing through the great house, but, although he waited for a long time, no one opened the door. He went around to the side of the house which opened directly on to the dark, narrow side street which Marie Josephine had traversed with Gonfleur the night of the bal masquÉ. After groping about for a while in the dark, Dian found the door leading into the cellar. It was half open. He went inside, stepped over the logs of wood lying on the floor, crept up the steep, dark stairs, and found himself facing a long corridor.

Dian always remembered that walk through the great, silent house. There was no sound anywhere at all, and there was no sign of any human being. The drawing-rooms, the great halls, and the wide stairways seemed never to have known the touch of human footsteps. In one of the smaller rooms, on a pillow of a velvet couch, he saw some needlework and a pair of scissors lying beside it. It looked as though the sewing had been carelessly thrown down, as indeed it had been when Great-aunt Hortense’s servant had come for the comtesse.

Dian stood still in the center of the drawing-room and pondered. He looked at the inlaid mother-of-pearl table from which Humphrey had snatched the blue velvet covering to put about Rosanne, and at the wide hearth where Lisle and Rosanne had toasted the nuts that night a week ago, when so much had happened. Dian could not know of all this, but he worked things out in his mind. The house had not been taken over by the Republican soldiers. Of that he was convinced. Neville had told him of much that was happening, and he knew that he would have found some sign of occupation either by the mob or official authority.

He went on up to the floor above and came to a large room which he was sure must have belonged to the comtesse, for in it were a gilded bed with a blue brocade coverlet, and a tall dressing table with blue draperies and gold toilet articles. There was a little room off this which interested Dian and he stayed in it for some time. Dian had not wanted to go through the house, but he knew that he must do everything in his power to find Lisle and his mother and the little girl who had always been the Little Mademoiselle’s best friend. That was why the little room off the comtesse’s big one interested him so much. There was a sleeping couch, and close by it a table. On the table were arranged some books, and propped against the books was a water-color painting of a dog. In spite of the wobbly legs and ungainly shape, Dian realized that it was meant to be a likeness of Flambeau. He picked it up and read what was written on it:

“Flambeau wishes to give you his best felicitations for your birthday. Your friend, Marie Josephine.”

The date was that of a year or more before. It evidently had been one of Rosanne’s greatest treasures. She had brought it with her when she had had to leave her own home so suddenly for the Saint FrÈre home. As Dian looked at the painting, he felt the same sadness of heart that he had felt when Grigge had begged him not to go away. It was because he had such deep and tender pity for any one in distress.

He passed on to the servants’ part of the house. Everywhere he saw evidence of careless, hasty departure. There was one room that seemed different from the others; it gave the air of being occupied. Dian knew at once that it belonged to Henri, the one servant who had stayed, and he whom Neville did not trust. The door of the room was open, and Dian went inside. Henri probably still lived here, and at any moment he might return.

Dian went on down through the vast house, feeling his way in the darkness, until he came to the long corridor on the lower floor. He took a candle from one of many in a bronze candelabra on the hall table, and then, with his sack over his shoulder, made his way to the top of the cellar stairs. Here he lit his candle with flint and tinder which he had found in a box on the drawing-room floor. Then he climbed down, down, until he came to the dim cellar. He knelt on the floor and pressed the little square stone—the seventh—that was wedged in between the other stones. The stone slid aside and, as the space opened to receive him, he descended slowly into the heart of the ancient house, into the furthermost depths of its hidden fastness. Before descending, he touched the stone and it slipped back into place. He had faith that it would open as easily again at his touch. He had searched for no lodging in Paris that day because he knew that he would lodge deep underground. He was “the other one” who knew of the hidden cellar!