Raoul woke up feeling very ill the morning of the day that Marie Josephine went to the house of Great-aunt Hortense and let her mother through the garden door. He had eaten heartily of pig’s feet and apricot preserve, presents to the seed shopman and his family from the market gardener’s wife.

Late that same afternoon Dian visited him in his stuffy room at the top of the seed shop. He found him cross and unhappy. His head ached and he could not stop thinking about the pig’s feet and the apricot preserve, much as he tried to do so. He did not have a great many things besides food to think about, and felt at a loss. He cheered up on seeing his shepherd friend, and when Dian rose to take his leave, said he felt better. Dian went out and came back again with some grapes. He placed them in a cracked dish on a table near the oat-straw shakedown where Raoul was lying.

“You will be glad of their refreshment in the morning, though you make a face at them now,” he said, smiling. Then he sat down again on a stool near the rough bed.

“My master’s friend who knows of medicine saw me, and he says I’ll not be able to leave the city for some days; I have fever,” Raoul said, giving his hard pillow an impatient poke. Dian took the pillow and shook it up, and lifted Raoul so that he rested more comfortably. Then he sat quietly beside him, thinking deeply.

“Will your master drive out the cart himself, then?” he asked the boy.

Raoul shook his head vigorously.

“Not him! He’s deep in talking, talking all the time, going to section meetings, and quarreling with everybody. Tortot the baker won’t speak to him or to the seed shopman. He’s just about distracted since they broke down his shop and played such havoc with his goods. He hasn’t dared to open up the shop since because of the mob.” Raoul raised his head from the pillow and spoke confidentially to Dian. “He doesn’t say anything about the boy that disappeared from the shop that night. He knows he’d get himself into a good measure of trouble over hiding an aristocrat that way. They’d say in the convention he was trying to help him get away, instead of holding him until the right time to get rid of him. Oh, you can wager he’ll keep still enough about that. I don’t care what they do. I’m going to stay home when once I get there. I hate this old place and everybody here but you!” At this last remark Raoul became so upset that he threw the pillow to the other end of the room. He seemed to feel better after he had done so, for he grinned at Dian.

The door opened just then and the market gardener came in, a prosperous-looking, red-faced man in grey breeches and dark-brown waistcoat decorated with the tri-colored rosette.

“A fine boy, a fine boy. He would do well to eat only black bread and garlic for a time. He’s been living too high, that’s what’s the matter with him!” he exclaimed in his bluff way, standing over the cot and looking good-naturedly down at Raoul.

Dian stood, and, leaning over, laid his hands on Raoul’s shoulder.

“I will see you again before very long, perhaps at your home in the country that you love. Sometime I will show you my flock of sheep, and you will meet the little Jean of whom I have told you,” he said. Then he turned to the market gardener. “I know a boy who will drive your cart to-morrow, if you like. He lives in a cellar, and is in dire straits. He will be only too glad of earning even a few coins, for he has a journey before him, and a mother and sisters dependent upon him. I’d like to do him the good turn.”

Now Dian was a prime favorite with the market gardener, who was constantly wrangling with the men he knew in the city, though he cared not a fig for any of them except the seed shopman. He admired Dian’s bulk and his free, fearless ways. “There’s a man for you,” he would say. “There’s a man of France, with a broad back and broad ways. There’s a man!” He greeted Dian’s suggestion cordially.

“Bring on your boy. I want one I can trust, and these Paris brats are as sly as their fathers. I, for one, will be glad to get away from the whole dirty, quarrelsome lot of them,” he said. There was an answering mutter of agreement from the bed.

“He is a friend of the little Vivi, and a worthy lad. Where will I find the cart? I will myself see that the lad is started in good time and order,” said Dian.

“It will stand, as always, at the end of the row by the West Barricade, and I will see that it is ready. You can tell him the road and the way, as you know the country about, but it would be well for me to have a word with him. You say he knows the road? He’s not one of the city brats?” As the market gardener asked this last question, he took out his long pipe and lit it. Settling back on the stool that Dian had vacated, he drew a long puff from it, unconscious of the wry face that Raoul made as the tobacco smoke filled the room.

“He knows all the country near you, for he comes from the road east of Calais, and has been back and forth in summer weather many times,” Dian answered. Then he opened the door and went out, saying over his shoulder as he did so:

“The lad and I will be at the West Barricade to-morrow at sundown, or just before the gates close. You never go until then, I take it?”

“No, we hold on for the trade until dusk. I’ll be there by the cart. Raoul here will be his own man in a few days, and will, I hope, have learned his lesson about going slow with pigs’ feet,” answered Raoul’s master.

“Give my regards to the funny fat man in the brown cloak,” called Raoul, and Dian could hear him laughing, weak as he was, as he went down the seed shop stairs.

Dian knew that all had gone well with Marie Josephine, for he had stayed about the house and halls, and had known when she had gone up the back stairs, though no one else had seen the little grey figure slip away. He had gone out and waited, fighting the fear that almost choked him as the minutes seemed to fly by, and the door in the garden wall did not open. Then he had seen them come out and go their different ways, as they had been told to do, and so, instead of going in again to the house, to give his life if need be for them, he had gone on to the seed shop and there, as always, he had found a way.

He felt a sense of relief in the knowledge that Henri had gone with his regiment that morning, for though he was grateful that the man had waked up to his real self, putting his cowardice aside and doing a last act of helpfulness in aiding the comtesse to escape, still the knowledge of the hidden cellar was not for him. Dian, when he reached the Saint FrÈre house, walked up and down the upper cellar for some time, his hands clasped before him, his face lifted to the dark, dusty rafters. He felt that the old comte was very near to him, not a wraith of his person, but the loving earnestness of his spirit. He was doing the best he knew how, this shepherd, in his own simple way. To him it meant only trusting in the power of good to stand by them.

As soon as he had opened the slide he heard Marie Josephine’s voice calling softly to him. The lanthorn had made a scraping noise against the stone wall as he lifted it. Faint as it was, she had heard it, for she had been sitting on the lowest rung of the stairs, listening for him, ever since she had returned, breathless and half bewildered, from the house of Great-aunt Hortense.

She stood before him with clasped hands as he emerged from the gloom of the stairs.

“Maman is safe? Tell me, Dian!” She caught his sleeve and held on to it as they walked toward the others. Rosanne was sleeping in the alcove near the chest. Lisle was walking up and down in the room beyond, Humphrey Trail beside him, both talking earnestly. Jean, who was now very much awake, ran up to Dian and took hold of the other side of his coat.

“She is out of Paris. She reached the Place de la Bastille and went off in the coach as Henri’s sister. The passport was in order. I watched her go through the gates in a public coach. I saw you open the garden gate. You did not come in vain to Paris, Little Mademoiselle!” the shepherd answered her, and his words of praise, as well as the welcome news of her mother’s safety, brought sudden tears to her eyes.

“I do not feel little any more, Dian. I have grown up these last days,” she said, turning to meet Rosanne, who had wakened, and who, with the others, came crowding up to them. Lisle and Marie Josephine held each other’s hands, and Marie Josephine hid her face in his sleeve. Their mother was safe out of Paris. Dian had seen her drive out of the gates in a coach. Very simply Marie Josephine told them what she had done as they all stood about her, tense and eager.

“You danced for those men there in the hall—you! They thought you were Vivi!” Lisle could not believe it. His sister, Marie Josephine!

He stood very still while she told them of going up to her mother, slipping through the dusk when no one saw her, and finding a strange woman of the people who was maman and yet was not! “Maman was so wonderful. I told her that she must try to speak like the people. I said, 'Citizeness, you will do well to remember that you must have the speech of the people at the gates.’ The key would not turn in the lock at first—I mean in the garden door lock—but it did at last and we got safely outside. Maman did not know me, of course. Maman thinks that we are waiting for her near Calais, but just as she said good-by she—she—said, 'There is something about you a little like—like one of them ch—children——’” Marie Josephine drew this last out in a long sob, putting her face down in the hollow of her arm.

How they comforted her, one and all. Humphrey told stories of his Yorkshire farm, until he had to clear his throat again and again, and they begged him to go on even when he said he simply could not say another word. He held Jean on his knee and sang a funny Yorkshire song to him. The time flew by with happy talk as they roasted apples over the little fire, no one objecting in the least to the smoke.

Dian sat back in a far corner, his hands clasped on his knee, his eyes closed. The hidden cellar had performed its task, had justified itself. It had saved the lives of two of the Saint FrÈres, and of their friends. It had proved itself to be a stronghold, a refuge, even a home. It had opened its dark arms to receive the last Lisle Saint FrÈre, protecting him from those who would have had his head on the guillotine block. It had opened those same arms for the little girl who knew and loved it, and who had been the one of her generation chosen to know of it. To-morrow was in God’s hands. Dian was not afraid. He was glad for many things. He was glad to hear children’s laughter, glad that the comtesse was through the gates and that Marie Josephine had been the one to aid her, glad of the friendship of honest Humphrey Trail, and that there would be a safe refuge for them all with Humphrey in England.

He stood up, his great height bringing him almost to a level with the rough stone ceiling, and, coming over to them, answered their welcoming call of “Dian, come and stay with us,” with a smile that had in it something of sadness. Then he went over to the chest and, standing by it, beckoned them to come to him. They came, all of them, and looked at him in wonder as he stood there lost in thought.

Suddenly he turned toward Lisle, who stood beside him, and he touched him lightly on the shoulder. It was as though he was knighting him for something.

“You are the last of these Saint FrÈres who have been such a brave race of men. You have the name of the first one of them of whom there is record, and of whom there is much to remember. He helped to build this hidden place with his own hands. He said that one member of the family in each generation should know of this cellar and, knowing, should bear in mind always that it was built with a prayer, and that the prayer was to remember one’s brother, to turn away from tyranny and the lust of power. That was what the first Lisle Saint FrÈre wanted of those of his own blood who were to come after him.” Dian looked at Lisle as he spoke. “Your grandfather was the one who came nearest to the first Lisle’s wish. Of that I am sure,” he said simply.

Then Lisle did a strange thing, so unlike him that those about him could not believe their eyes. He clasped his hands as though in prayer and stood silent for a moment, and it was as though he neither saw nor was aware of those about him.

“Help me to be like the first Lisle,” he prayed.

“Dian—see Dian’s face!” whispered Rosanne to Marie Josephine, and they both turned and looked up at the shepherd. There was a light on his face, and in his eyes a depth of happiness.

Dian took a key from his inner pocket, and stooping over, unlocked the chest. Then he turned and looked again at Lisle.

“I believe that you will be like the first Lisle and that you will have knowledge beyond his to work out a way of helping the people, and all those that need you,” he said. Then he leaned over, and, reaching down into the depths of the chest, drew out a tray. It was made of iron and it exactly fitted the chest. On it were bags, some of goatskin, some of raw hides, several of velvet, and one of leather.

He touched them softly with his hands, tenderly, broodingly, the way a miser might have touched his wealth, after the visit of an angel who had awakened him to the glories of giving, instead of keeping.

“There is gold here, old money, some of which is valueless but for the spirit in which it was given. The one of each generation who has known of the secret cellar has put something here, has given of his store,” he said.

“I haven’t anything to give,” said Marie Josephine, a quiver in her voice.

“You offered your life, but the sacrifice was not needed,” the shepherd answered her.

“I am the last Lisle now and I have nothing to give,” Lisle said in the humble way which was new to him.

“You would have given your life a hundred times over, had there been a way. You have given a prayer that is better than all this,” Dian answered him.

“Whom does it belong to?” asked Jean, who was delighted with the rows of little bags inside the odd old chest.

Dian put his hand again on Lisle’s shoulder.

“It belongs to this Lisle,” he said. Then he reached down and picked up a dark-stained piece of paper. There were letters on the paper, burnt into the parchment with the sharp end of a stick. They were so curiously worded that Lisle had to study them, when Dian handed him the paper, before he could make them out. They were in French, but of the old language. After a moment of silence Lisle read very slowly:

“In the hour of need thou shall of this treasure give to the creatures who have the sorest want. Keep to thine own that for thy bread. Give of the rest, not to thyself, but to thy brother!”

There was silence there in the depths of the earth after Lisle had read from the parchment. It seemed to stay with them all the evening. It seemed almost as though it spoke to them. “Give of the rest, not to thyself, but to thy brother.”

Long ago Dian had gone over the bags with the old comte. He and Lisle now put away, in the bottom of the chest, the quaint old coins in their faded bags, handling them tenderly as though they loved them. They decided to take two bags of the more modern money with them.

“Remember that I leave you at the boat, and that you must find out, with Humphrey’s aid, whether the English government can change this for you. It may be worthless now, except for its value in gold,” Dian said to Lisle.

They locked the chest and laid the two bags of money on the shelf next to the horn drinking cups. It was late and Jean was beginning to yawn.

Humphrey went about through the narrow alcove-like rooms beyond, putting a rug here and a pillow there, intent on everyone’s comfort and glad indeed to have something to do, for he was sorely troubled. It was all very well to spend one’s time over an old chest, and he had been as interested as the others; but to-morrow they were to make a run for their lives! He knew that Dian had some plan, and that there had been no chance to tell him. He was relieved beyond words when the shepherd called them all together.

Years afterward Humphrey used to recall that night to himself as he sat in a corner of his own fire-side, his pipe between his lips. Neighbors happening in would have to speak to him several times before he would be aware of their presence. “Ah—yes—welcome in. I was thinking back a long way, a long way,” he would say. Dian in their midst telling them about “to-morrow!”

It was very simple. Dian and Humphrey had passports, being citizens, one of France, the other one of England. There had been no trouble about them. Dian’s parents, who were not living, were known to have been good, honest citizens in their day, who had been oppressed by the aristocrats. He himself was a shepherd. Humphrey was a farmer who had been in France on a holiday. They would pass out at the gates after the children had gone through.

And how was that to be done? The little Vivi again. Georges Fardou, her friend, was on guard at sundown. That Dian knew well. He was always there when the carts went out. A boy, a friend of Vivi’s, would drive a vegetable cart, the market gardener would be there himself to see that all was in order. He would explain to the gatemen that the lad was taking Raoul’s place and was quite to be trusted. The lad would be Lisle!

The children, Rosanne and Jean and Marie Josephine, were to run about with Vivi. She was Georges Fardou’s friend and he never resisted her appeals. He would let them run through and play on the other side for a while. They would be met by Champar, who had fleet horses ready. They must not fear. That was as definite a plan as they could agree upon.

All knew that there was a great risk, but there was little fear in the hearts of any of them that night in the cellar. They sat about on one of the big rugs and ate their late supper of bread and cheese and chocolate. Then they went to their various cosy beds of shawls and rugs, and slept soundly until morning.

It was while Humphrey was frying the bacon for breakfast, assisted by Marie Josephine, who stood by the frying pan and turned the slices with a one-pronged fork when they began to brown nicely, that Lisle spoke with Dian.

“I am glad that I shall not be with the others going through the gates, for some one might recognize me and suspect them all. I am so much taller than the others, too big to be a playmate for Vivi. Tell me, Dian, what will become of her. I do not like to leave her unbefriended. There must be something we can do for her.”

Dian was glad to hear Lisle say this, and his face bore a very earnest look as he answered: “You are right to ask for her, and I have told Mademoiselle de SoignÉ and the Little Mademoiselle that she is safe. I will tell you more than this. I could not go away from Paris leaving Vivi alone and unprotected, to starve. She has been our friend, loyal always. I shall take care of her in the country where she will be happy as the sunshine. I hope that Mother Barbette will open her heart to her, finding in her the little girl she has always wanted for her own. It was easy to procure a passport for Vivi, and she leaves the gates to-morrow at twelve——”

“But you said—I don’t understand—— How can Marie Josephine be taken for her if she has already gone?” Lisle looked up, deeply puzzled.

“Do you not see? Her friend, Georges Fardou, will not be there at noon. He comes on duty always at five. He will know nothing of Vivi’s having left and will play the game of letting her through the gates as usual. What we must hope—aye, and pray—is that he will let her little comrades through also!”

Lisle smiled. “You are you, Dian. Next you will tell me that the others at Pigeon Valley are safe!”

“That I can tell you now. Listen well. They are safe enough in a deserted barn near Calais. Champar, the cross-eyed coach driver, took them there. I was saving this to tell you at the last before we leave, in order to give you all, especially Mademoiselle de SoignÉ, good courage.”

“CÉcile du Monde in a deserted barn!” Lisle threw back his head in the old way. Then he laughed. “We are all a set of vagabonds. Eh bien! so much the better. Rosanne,” he called to her over his shoulder, “we are tramps, all of us. Dian has more news. CÉcile and Bertran and that funny ProtÉ and Madame le Pont and Hortense are safe, hiding in a barn——”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Marie Josephine told me last night before we went to sleep. She said we must be quiet about it and not talk too much, because there was so much to plan. She told me that I must not speak at all by the gates or afterward, for fear I would give myself away, but I’ve remembered ever so many things that Vivi used to say, and when I’m dressed in tatters I think I can talk like her.” Rosanne smiled cheerfully as she spoke, but her smile faded a little, later in the day, when all her long, soft, golden hair was sheared and fell in a glittering heap on the chest. She did not cry, but there was a quiver about her mouth. Dian picked the hair up and wrapped it in a piece of satin that had covered one of the pillows they had brought down.

“It will not be safe to take it with us; but remember, Mademoiselle, nothing can happen to the hidden cellar. Some day we will come here to the chest and find it and give it to your mother in memory of the old days in France, which will be dear to her,” he said, laying the bright bundle in a corner of the chest.

They all laughed at each other, for they were the sorriest sights imaginable. Vivi lived in one of the worst alleys in Paris, and her friends were the most unkempt of all the children who played about the gates. Rosanne’s hair they discolored with a dark fluid, and they rubbed dye into her delicate face and arms and hands. She wore a tattered dress, which had a berry stain down the front, and no stockings under her broken shoes. They had not dared to let her go barefooted because of her feet betraying her. Marie Josephine was Vivi, in the torn dirty dress that had stood the journey from Pigeon Valley, her uncombed hair flapping about her face and eyes. She was tanned like a veritable gypsy, and there was no need of any more disguise for her. She was the street gamin to perfection, and she had the gift of knowing how to play a part. She had confidence, too. The experience at the house of Great-aunt Hortense had given it to her. She was full of fire and courage and the love of adventure. She was ready!

“The last of the Saint FrÈres! Oh, you funny boy!” She danced about her brother mockingly. “What an honest country lad you look, to be sure, does he not, Humphrey Trail?” she cried laughingly.

“He does look out of his usual way, but tha knows he is the same. I’m fashed to see how any one else could tell him to be the proud lad he is,” Humphrey answered slowly, surveying Lisle soberly.

Lisle gave him a quick smile. “Humphrey Trail, the only friend I had in Paris the day the Tuileries was sacked,” he said, and a look of friendship passed between the two.

Dian regarded Lisle gravely and then nodded. Yes, he would do. His hair was cut short and dyed also, and he wore a homespun suit and rough, awkward shoes. His coarse shirt was open at his throat, which showed brown enough from the dye, and his eyebrows were ruffed up and there was a splash of cherry juice across one of them. He was to be eating cherries as he drove through with the cart. He stood before them, a far different figure from the Lisle Saint FrÈre who had danced the minuet at the De SoignÉ ball.

“Well, it’s time to start. We are ready, all of us.” Dian spoke in his usual simple, direct way and they followed him without a word. Marie Josephine was the last to climb the ladder stairs. She looked back at the quiet, tender gloom of the old place. “Good-by,” she whispered. “Sometime we are coming back, all of us!”

They each knew what to do and there was no need for discussion. Dian and Humphrey, accompanied by Lisle, went on ahead, and the two little girls with Jean followed at a distance but kept near enough so as not to lose sight of them. In any case they were to find their way to the West Barricade.

It was dusk when they reached the gates, and the first pink glow of a spring sunset showed above the tall, gaunt forge that was busy near by making guns for the army of the revolution.

The market gardener stood by the empty cart and hailed Dian and Humphrey cheerfully. Then he looked Lisle over from head to foot. Lisle was eating cherries unconcernedly and only gave a sheepish side nod to the market gardener as he looked him over.

“He seems fond of cherries, that lad of yours,” he said to Dian. “Bien! I must go to a meeting. See that you hurry on. As it is you’ll not be at my farm before night. The shepherd here says you know the way. Here’s your pay. Good-day, citizens,”—and the stout, fussy man hurried away to wrangle at a meeting until well into the morning.

Lisle jumped on to the cart and took the reins.

“Remember, Champar is to be waiting a few rods from the gates. Leave the horse and cart under a tree by the first turn. Champar will see that they reach the market gardener’s. He has told his cousin to fetch them there. Drive as quickly as you can. Don’t talk with the soldier at the gates unless you are forced to.” Dian spoke quickly in a low tone. Lisle nodded, took the reins, and drove toward the Barricade. A soldier stopped him, but he had been told that another lad would drive through with the cart and he knew the cart well. It had red wheels, and he and Raoul had often joked about it.

“You’ll be where your friend is if you eat many of those this time of year, young citizen,” the man said.

Lisle made a face, but said nothing, holding out some cherries to the man, who accepted two or three. It was Vivi’s friend, Georges Fardou, who came on duty at half past five.

He waved his hand. “Go on with you,” he said, and Lisle drove through.

“So, citizens, you are leaving the gay city—what?” Georges Fardou examined the passports of Humphrey and Dian critically, holding his lanthorn close up to them, for it was dark under the frowning shadow of the walls. He had had many a friendly chat with both of them at odd times, there at the gates, and had often sat next to Dian at meetings of the sections.

“Yes, and the children would come just a pace with us. It’s a good hour before the gates close, and they’ve followed us about all day,” Dian said simply, nodding toward a group of three laughing children, a boy and two girls, who were throwing mud at each other, and every now and then at passers-by.

“Vivi and I are good comrades, I was with the poor father when he died,” Humphrey said, not as though he were pleading for her to go through, but just stating a fact in his quiet way.

Georges nodded. “That was a bad thing. I’d like to see all of the aristos get the hit he got, poor devil. Well, many a one is getting hit at the back of the neck, good luck to the guillotine!” He glanced at the children who had come up to them. “It’s too late for you brats to go through the gates, and it’s against orders,” he said.

Then out of her eagerness and her love for those dear to her who were in peril, Marie Josephine spoke, and her very earnestness gave her courage. It was so dark there in the shadow of the wall that only her eager eyes seemed to show in her dark face as she looked up at the guard.

“I may not see the shepherd again. He has been kinder to me than any one since my father died, him and Humphrey, the funny farmer man,” Marie Josephine spoke in a hoarse, almost harsh voice.

Georges Fardou shook his head. “It’s too late,” he said again.

“Please—Georges Fardou.” There was a world of pleading in her voice, and a tear was zigzagging down her cheek as she looked up pleadingly at Georges Fardou.

“Bien! Out with the lot of you, but mind you’re not late coming back. It will be closing time within the hour.” He unlocked the gates again as he had done for Lisle and the cart. “Good-by, citizens, and a good journey,” he called to Dian and Humphrey as they went through. “When you come back you’ll find Antoinette has gone the way of Louis. Long live the Republic!”

Then he closed the gates after them.