IT was just after lunch, and Monsieur the Vicomte de Choisigny had drunk his coffee, which in summer was always carried out to a table in a vine-covered arbour, just by the window of the great salon, and was walking up and down the terrace, carrying on an animated discussion with a friend of his.

The Vicomte was a dark-haired, lively little Frenchman, who, all the time he was talking, shrugged his shoulders and made signs with his fingers as if he found that his tongue alone could not express all he meant it to express.

The man who walked beside him, his arm linked in his, was utterly unlike him. From his dress one could see at once that he was a clergyman, and from an indescribable something in his whole appearance one could also tell that he was an Englishman. He was tall and slight, with iron-gray hair, and a clean-shaven, delicate face, which, however, was shrewd and kindly, but which seemed to tell a tale of strenuous and trying work.

No two men could have presented a greater contrast to each other, and yet the two were bosom friends. They had been at Oxford together, for Arnauld de Choisigny was a Protestant, a descendant of an old Huguenot family, and his father had wished him to be educated at an English university, so they had played in the same cricket matches and pulled in the same boat; and although their ways in life had lain far apart the old friendship still existed as close and true as ever.

No one looking at them would have judged them to be contemporaries in age, for the years that had been spent by Nigel Maxwell in fighting with the sin and misery of an East London parish, and that had broken down his health for a time, and made his hair whiter than it need have been, had passed lightly over the Vicomte, who, nevertheless, had done his duty nobly in his own way, and was known by all the peasants on his large estates as a model landlord and a kind and just master.

‘Yes, my friend,’ he was saying in perfect English, ‘I am glad for your sake that the Bishop has insisted on filling up your place in Bethnal Green, and is sending you down to rusticate for a year or two in that seaside parish in Cornwall. He is a wise man your Bishop, and knows what he is doing. In a year or two you will be as strong and well as ever you were, and fit to take up work in the city again if you still wish to do so. And for the present, a couple of months’ idleness at the ChÂteau de Choisigny will do you no end of good before you take up your new work of preaching to the fisherfolks!’

Nigel Maxwell smiled, and shook his head with a sigh. No one but himself knew what a trial this enforced idleness was, or what a wrench it had been to him to leave his London parish and the poor people there who had learned to love and trust him, and whose lives had been brighter and better because of his presence among them.

‘You know how I am enjoying my visit, Arnauld,’ he said. ‘I have not seen so much of you since the old Oxford days. Indeed, I have never had such a lazy time since then; but I have run too long in harness to take kindly to an idle life, so you must excuse me if sometimes I seem a little restless.’

The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders and laughed a good-natured, cheerful laugh.

‘Thou wilt learn, mon ami; thou wilt learn,’ he said. ‘Already I begin to see in you traces of an idleness which I would not have suspected a month ago. For instance, I noted that you did not open a book this whole morning, but sat and smoked, with your hands folded. The veriest loafer in the world could not have been worse.’

‘It was the lovely scenery that tempted me,’ replied his friend. ‘If there was one thing I used to long for in Bethnal Green it was to see green fields and a blue sky, undimmed and unclouded by dirt or smoke.’

‘Ah, if it is scenery you want, wait until the new auto comes,’ said his companion. ‘Then I shall take you about, and let you see my country. What say you to a run through Brittany and down the Loire? We need not go too quickly; we could rest where we liked.’

Just then a servant came along the terrace. It was evident that he had some news to tell, for ill-concealed eagerness was written on his face, and he was hurrying as much as was compatible with the dignity of a well-trained servant.

‘Ha, Jacques!’ said the Vicomte, turning to him and speaking in rapid French, ‘hast thou come to tell us that the car has come? If it left Carhaix, as it ought to have done, this morning, it has had plenty of time to have arrived by now.’

The man bowed respectfully.

‘But yes, sire,’ he answered, ‘it has even now arrived. It is in the courtyard. I was hurrying to inform you when Jean-Marie called me back. He had begun to undo the wrappings, and he had made a most extraordinary discovery—a discovery both strange and startling. In the car, in the back of it, among the rugs which your honour ordered Jean-Marie to bring with him from Nantes, was a child, a little boy. The poor child seems ill; his head is gone. In short, sire, he raves; and Jean-Marie called out to me, “Go, Jacques, go quickly, and call the Vicomte; he will know what to do.” So I came, sire, as quickly as I could.’

‘So we see,’ said the Vicomte laughing. ‘Thou wert always one who loved a mystery, Jacques. Doubtless it is some little garÇon who wanted a cheap ride and who now feigns illness as an excuse for his deed. But go—we will follow—and frighten the little rogue well.’

But one glance at the tiny huddled-up figure, with its flushed face and wild, unseeing eyes, showed the Vicomte that this was no case of imposture. Whatever had been the boy’s reason for concealment, whatever had been his state when he crept under the tarpaulin cover, it was evident that now he was very ill.

‘Poor little fellow! Hast thou any idea where thou pickedest him up, Jean-Marie, or how long he hath lain under that heavy covering? It may be a case of sunstroke; the heat must have been terrible.’

But Jean-Marie, who was standing in the middle of a group of his fellow-servants, gazing in amazement at the strange little passenger whom he had so unwittingly carried in his master’s new car, shook his head stupidly.

‘That I cannot tell, sire,’ he answered. ‘He could not be there when I left Nantes, because I put in the rugs and fastened up the tarpaulin just before I started; and he can scarce have got in at Dinard, the distance is too short. Mayhap he crawled in at Carhaix, for he looks like a little peasant from the mountains of Bretagne. But how he pulled down the cover over himself, and fastened it so carefully—that is what I cannot understand, sire.’

‘He is dressed like a little peasant; but I hardly think he is,’ said Mr Maxwell, who had been examining the little stowaway carefully. ‘It seems to me, Arnauld, that there is more here than meets the eye. Just listen to what he says, and his accent is as pure as mine.’

‘I am an English boy, an English boy,’ moaned Pierre, in a low monotonous voice, as if he were repeating a lesson, ‘and I am going to England. I have forgotten much, my head always feels queer; but I am going to England, and then I will remember.’

These broken sentences were repeated over and over again, and then the weak voice wandered off into a jumble of words, at the sound of which the clergyman shook his head.

‘That is not French,’ he said. ‘Who or what can he be, I wonder?’

‘It is the Breton patois,’ said the Vicomte; ‘I understand it, for old Suzette my foster-mother—my housekeeper now—came from the mountains, and I learned the language ere I could speak my own. He is talking now like any peasant child about cows, and pigs, and other animals; and, look, he shrinks from something as if he expected a blow. But we must do something; we cannot let him lie here.—Go, Jacques, and call Suzette; she is a good nurse, and she will know what to do.’

Mr Maxwell had already lifted the little waif in his arms, however.

‘With your leave, Arnauld,’ he said, ‘I will carry him up to my room. It is big enough for me and half-a-dozen sick children if necessary. It is not the first time by any means that I have tried my hand at nursing, and it will make me feel that I am not quite a cumberer of the ground. Perhaps you will allow old Suzette to come to my help with some fresh tepid water. If we had him out of the sun, and some of this dust washed away, perhaps the little lad may revive. I confess I shall be deeply interested to hear his story.’

But all that the kind clergyman, aided by old Suzette, who came in in her quaint peasant costume, eager to lend her aid, could do, could not bring back sense to poor little Pierre’s wandering brain. They hoped that it would do so, for after they had undressed him, and sponged him tenderly all over with vinegar and water, and laid him in Mr Maxwell’s own bed, which they drew to the open window, so that he should have as much of the air as it was possible to get on that sultry afternoon, he fell into a heavy sleep; but when he awoke he seemed more feverish than ever, and tossed from side to side, throwing off the spotless coverings which Suzette would fain have kept tucked neatly round him, and talked brokenly in English of how he was an English boy, and must get up and go home.’