“Jean, you must not be sulky. I have told you before that you are a great baby. I only played and pretended to be happy. I shall never be so stupid again.”

Marie Josephine and Jean were swinging on the gates of Les Vignes, enjoying the keen rush of air about their faces as they swung back and forth. It was a week since Dian had left in the night and they missed him sadly.

“It doesn’t matter whether we miss Dian or not, if only he can be of comfort to maman and Lisle,” Marie Josephine went on. “I heard the man talking to Nannette. You know, the man who brought the news about the king. They have killed the king and the man said that they would kill the poor queen. Lisle will run away and fight for the queen, even if he is only fifteen. I know he will. Lisle, Lisle, I want to see you so much!”

“You are not the same since Dian left. You will not play, and you look as though you were thinking all the time,” said Jean, biting into a wizened apple.

“I am thinking, Jean. When Neville came back that night that we had supper on the terrace, he brought us no good news. I have not been happy since.”

Jean jumped down from the gate, and held it so that it stopped swinging back and forth. He looked up at Marie Josephine.

“What is your thought, Little Mademoiselle? Tell me what it is; please tell little Jean!” He looked so young as he stood there. Marie Josephine gave her head an impatient shake, so that the blue hood of her cape fell back on her shoulders.

“Your cousin Grigge is coming this way, Jean,” she said.

Grigge came up to them along the bleak, frozen road. He would have passed them by with a sort of half nod to Marie Josephine and a scowl for Jean, had not Marie Josephine called out to him:

“Will you not come and speak with us, Grigge? We have been talking of Dian the shepherd, and we wish that we could see him.”

Grigge had never spoken with the Little Mademoiselle before although he had seen her every summer, and she had always given him a pleasant greeting. He was so eager for news of Dian, that he came up to them at once.

“You have heard from him, Mademoiselle! Tell me that you have had word!” He came close to the gates and looked up eagerly at Marie Josephine.

She shook her head. “There is no news of him, but he has only been away a week. We are sure that he is happy, wherever he is. Nothing but good could happen to Dian.”

Grigge clasped his hands together in his eagerness.

“No, no, you are right. Nothing could happen. He will come back,” he exclaimed.

Marie Josephine nodded emphatically.

“Jean and I will walk with him across the meadows at sunset, and he will have so many wonderful things to tell us about his adventures!”

Grigge looked at her wonderingly, at the fineness of her blue cape, the delicate contour of her face, her carefully brushed curls, her straight black velvet frock. He had never been close up to any one like her before. She was so unlike anything in his own life that she might have come from another world. When she told him that no news had come from Dian, his face fell. All the week he had felt a weight of loneliness upon him. He had taken faithful care of the sheep and he had been proud of the task, but the one person who made life bearable for him had gone away.

Marie Josephine looked at Grigge with interest. What a pale, thin boy he was, and what big eyes he had! She felt a lump in her throat as she looked at him. Marie Josephine was beginning to wake up. She was beginning to realize that there was something in the world besides the house in Paris and Les Vignes, governesses and bals masquÉs. She was seeing Grigge for the first time, not just as a poor, ragged lad living in one of the hovels at the very gates of her home, but as some one who was unhappy and worried and in need of comfort, as she was herself. Feeling this way about Grigge was so new to her that she did not know what to make of it.

“Do you miss Dian so much?” she asked him.

He nodded, his face working as though he would cry.

“He has gone to help my brother. He told Jean and me a story about a prince. It came to him suddenly, and he told it to us. He called Lisle his prince, and he said he felt that he was in trouble.” Marie Josephine’s voice shook, and the tears sprang into her eyes in spite of herself.

Grigge sneered in the way he so often did when he spoke to his cousin Jean. He was hungry and cold. The wind whistled through his tattered coat. So that was it! Dian had gone away to help some one who had never done anything for him, who probably did not need him at all!

“Why should he go to your brother? What has he ever done for him? What have any of you ever done for us? You have done nothing but starve us! My father had to spend his nights beating the swamps so that the frogs would not disturb your people’s sleep!”

Grigge spoke so fast that he jumbled all his words together. His eyes snapped oddly in his gaunt face. He had not meant to burst out in that way. The words seemed to come almost without his knowing it. It was a bitter, dark winter. They had nothing and, he felt sure, never would have anything but bitter want. He felt jealous, too, when he saw his cousin Jean. He always had been jealous because Jean lived within the gates, and had better food than he.

Marie Josephine’s eyes were full upon him. They were filled with astonishment, but not anger. She was too interested to be angry.

“Dian maybe is risking his life! There are terrible times in Paris. We heard from the peddler that they have killed the king. Your brother is not worth as much as Dian’s staff!” Grigge went on excitedly.

Jean flung himself from the gate and pitched into Grigge before either he or Marie Josephine could think. He had been swinging back and forth and listening, and when Grigge said that Lisle was not worth as much as Dian’s staff, he was ready to spring! The two boys rolled over and over on the hard ground. Jean knew that he was getting the worst of it, but he did not mind. He was fighting for the Little Mademoiselle, and he gloried in it. Let her say again that he was only a baby, and that he would never grow up! She would see that he could avenge her! She would see that no one could insult her brother in his presence, even if he were only little Jean!

Marie Josephine’s voice rang out sharply in the clear, frosty air.

“Stop! Do you hear me? I say you are to stop. Do not dare to hurt little Jean, Grigge!”

Grigge had Jean upon the ground and was pounding him with his fists.

Marie Josephine ran over to the two boys.

“It would break Dian’s heart to see you,” she cried. Grigge immediately left off pounding and stood up, and after a moment Jean followed his example. Grigge looked sullen and sheepish, but Jean’s little face glowed. Marie Josephine had given him a look of approval.

They stood there, the three of them, in the pale wintry sunshine. Marie Josephine looked straight into Grigge’s eyes. She held her blue cloak about her shoulders, her curls blew in the wind, and on her white, earnest face was a look that had never been there before.

“I didn’t know, Grigge. I am just waking up to—oh, so many things! You are not the only one who has trouble now, remember that. We must all try to help each other.” As she spoke, she turned away toward the gates, but Grigge’s voice followed her.

“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,” he cried.

Late the next afternoon Marie Josephine sought Jean at the cottage. He was alone, sitting on the settle by the fire, and he was just finishing his early supper of onion soup. Mother Barbette had gone to the hovel to take some soup to Grigge’s youngest sister, who was ailing.

Marie Josephine shut the door behind her and came over and sat on the settle, well pleased to find that Jean was alone.

“It is soon time for me to be dressed for our supper, so I can only stay for a very little while. I have been thinking some more, Jean, and I am going to tell you what I have planned to do.” She looked at him very earnestly as she spoke. “I think I shall tell you—if only I can be quite, quite sure that I can trust you. Now do not frown. You might forget and let a word slip. Will you promise me that you will never, never let any one know what I am going to tell you?” She put both hands on his shoulders as she spoke and her eyes shone with eagerness.

Jean nodded vigorously. He would not mention what he had done, not he. She had seen him pitch into Grigge, a big boy, who was known to be a fighter. She knew that he was not so young as she had thought. He could keep his own counsel too.

“I’ll never tell, never, never, never,” he assured her.

She went over to the door, opened it, and looked out to make sure that no one was coming. A shriek from above the door made her jump, but it was only Pince Nez the crow.

Marie Josephine walked over to the fire and poked one of the logs with her little bronze shoe. There was some snow on the shoe and it fell into the logs with a sizzling sound.

“It is like this, Jean,” she said. “I’ve thought about it so many times, lying awake at night, and even when sitting with the others around the drawing-room fire after our supper, while Hortense and Le Pont worked over their tapestries and CÉcile read aloud. Oh, Jean, I was only thirteen last week, but I feel older than any of them now. It makes me so sad when I see Le Pont doing the tapestry lilies on the screen that she has been working on for four years in the summers at Les Vignes, and remember how different it all was when she began it.” Marie Josephine choked back a sob.

“Yes, but tell me what it is that you are thinking about,” insisted Jean, as Pince Nez lighted suddenly on his shoulder and gave his ear a friendly little peck. “You are thinking of Madame your mother and of Monsieur Lisle, is it not so?” As he said this, he came over to the fire and stood beside her, frowning.

“I do not know whether to tell you or not——” Marie Josephine began, but she was interrupted by Jean’s angry words:

“You are going to say again that I am a baby and I will not bear it. Did I not fight my cousin Grigge for the sake of you all, this very day?” Jean gulped down a sob and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his black smock.

Marie Josephine patted his shoulder reassuringly.

“You were splendid, a real friend. I was proud of you. Yes, I am going to tell you. I have a plan which I must carry out.” She sat down on the settle, holding the sides of her cape with both hands, and looked across at him. “When the spring comes, Jean,” she went on, “I am going to”—her voice sank to a whisper—“Paris.”

Jean’s face went blank with astonishment. “You do not mean it! Why you would never be allowed, never in the world. They would never let you go!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t be stupid, Jean. They will know nothing about it. It is a secret.”

“It is not safe to go! You could not do it! You are only a little girl. It would be bad enough for me, who am a boy.” Jean enjoyed saying this very much and he felt suddenly the older and more experienced of the two. He had felt so ever since his fight with Grigge in the morning.

“I tell you that I will go. You cannot understand, for I can tell you only a little of why I am going,” she answered, frowning at him with her straight, black eyebrows which were so like the old comte’s.

“It is not safe to go. The peddler, who told us of the king’s death, said it was not safe. He said to go to Paris was to endanger one’s life!” protested Jean, his eyes growing bigger and bigger with excitement.

“The peddler said many things that were not true. Le Pont is sure that he could not have spoken the truth. No one would hurt me. I am not afraid,” she answered stoutly. “Maman and Lisle are in Paris. Have you forgotten Dian’s story about the prince in the dungeon. He has gone to help them, and so must I.”

“What could you do for them?” Jean was so deeply interested that he spoke loudly, and Marie Josephine held up her hand warningly.

“You must be silent about all this; it is to be a great secret between us.” She shook her finger at Pince Nez, who had perched himself on the top of Mother Barbette’s four-poster bed. “You are not to tell either, you naughty creature. I do not trust you. I think you are a witch in disguise!”

This seemed so funny to Jean that he fairly doubled up with laughter, rocking back and forth and chuckling loudly. He was so excited that it made him laugh all the harder and his mother, who at this moment opened the door, stood and gazed at him in astonishment.

“Why, you silly cabbage, you laugh like a clown. He is indeed a foolish feather head, is he not, Little Mademoiselle?” Mother Barbette put her arm tenderly about Marie Josephine and she hid her face on the broad, kind shoulder.

“It is so dark and cold. Will summer ever come?” she said. Mother Barbette gave a reassuring little laugh.

“Surely summer is coming, Little Mademoiselle, and with it the sunshine”—and her voice faltered a little as she went on—“and the dear ones who are away!”

Something in Mother Barbette’s words comforted Marie Josephine. She gave her a hug and said: “I love you, Mother Barbette. I must run back now, for, as it is, I know that I shall be well scolded by Le Pont for being out after dark.”

“Jean shall go with you through the wood, though there is never any fear for any one in our woods at Les Vignes, thank the kind God,” said Mother Barbette fervently. She stood in the low-arched doorway of the cottage watching the two children as they made their way toward their favorite wood path which led to the great house on the terrace.

The two friends ran a little of the way and then suddenly Jean stopped in the middle of the path and caught Marie Josephine’s cloak in both his hands. A wild rabbit scudded through the snow, popping behind a glistening, frost-tinted bush. Jean called after it, and then turned back to look at his friend.

“Listen, Little Mademoiselle. Don’t you know what I must do? When you go away to Paris in the spring I must go with you.” He, too, lowered his voice to a whisper, and he looked back over his shoulder, as though he feared that his mother might be right behind them, listening.

Marie Josephine took him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. “You will not go. Not for anything in the world would I let you go. Do you think I would be such an ungrateful girl as that to Mother Barbette? You are never to speak of it again—never!” Marie Josephine was so excited that she had to take a deep breath before she could go on. “Oh, if only you could! But we must never, never talk of it again!” Her eyes glowed as she spoke, and there was a glad, warm feeling in her heart. It was good to have a friend like Jean, even though he seemed so young for twelve and a half and knew so little of the world beyond Les Vignes!

They reached the wide sweep of terrace and she turned to him quickly. “I must run, for I am sure they will be angry because it is dark. Le Pont has grown so fussy and afraid. She cries a great deal, too. Thank you for saying you would go with me. It can never, never be done. It would be unfair and dishonorable of me to let you go. A Saint FrÈre could not do such a thing—— But it would have been fun!”

She was off, running across the terrace like a wild rabbit. The governess was standing at the top of the veranda steps. Marie Josephine could see that she was frowning.

“You make it so much harder for me these days, Marie Josephine,” she said, holding her dark satin cloak close about her. The wind swept across the porch, making the dry, frozen lily stalks at the side of the house crackle oddly. “I am never at ease about you. You never seem to be in the house. To-morrow you will stay inside all day, and you will do extra lessons. You are disobedient and thoughtless!” After she had spoken Madame le Pont went into the house.

Bertran did most of the talking at supper. He tried to make Marie Josephine quarrel with him, but she did not seem to mind his teasing as she generally did. She despised Bertran. He was fourteen and yet he did nothing but ride and dance. Ah, if only he were a brave knight who could go to Paris and help Lisle! There was instead only little Jean. Her heart warmed toward Jean as she sat next to CÉcile in the long drawing-room after supper. She watched Neville as he went about lighting the candles. He was dressed in the scarlet and white livery of the old Paris days and his white wig was tied back with a black ribbon. She had asked him again and again to tell her all that he knew. He had assured her, with all honesty, that he had left her mother and Lisle safe and well at the Paris house, and that there was no need for her to be alarmed. But she knew that he did not believe that they were not in danger, and she guessed that he was thankful that Dian had gone to them.

Marie Josephine put her head against CÉcile’s shoulder and looked into the fire with half-closed eyes. Denise was singing at the old spinnet and Bertran was trying to join in, but his voice sounded as though any moment it would crack. It was an old country song and there was something plaintive and charming about it.

Le Pont thought of her only as a naughty little girl. Dear CÉcile, her heart was sad; yet she could do nothing but work on her tapestry and pray for her loved ones who were in peril. But she, Marie Josephine, was going away alone to a great city, into the heart of a revolution! She was going in the spring!