April 12, 1914. Well, we've found out all about that dauphin, and an exhausting piece of work it was. I never waded through so much history before in all my life. If the Imp hadn't given us that hint, though, it would have been far worse, for we wouldn't have had the least idea where to begin.

We went to the library this morning and spent till lunch-time there, and then went back again this afternoon. As it was the Easter holidays, we fortunately had all the time to spend on it that we wanted. But I must tell all about what we've discovered. Some of it is very, very confusing. We can't understand what it can possibly have to do with Louis, and yet there are things about it that make us sure that it somehow has something to do with him.

To begin with, there isn't a shadow of doubt that this portrait is of the dauphin who was the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, king and queen of France around the time of the French Revolution. They seemed to be having a pretty mixed up and bloody time in France just about that period, and everybody had it in for the royal family and all the nobility. The common people somehow got control of things, and first they put the king and queen and dauphin and his sister in prison, and then they killed the king and queen. The dauphin was a little boy of six or seven at the time, and they didn't kill him, but kept him a prisoner for three years in a place called the Temple Tower, till finally he died of neglect. I think it said that he died in 1795.

It just made us wild to read about how shamefully they treated that poor little fellow. They gave him in charge of a horrible, cruel cobbler, named Simon, who beat and ill-used him abominably,—just because he happened to be the child of a king,—and then afterward they shut him up in a room by himself, where he never saw a single soul for six months, and handed him his food as they would to a dog in a kennel. At the end of that time they appeared to be a bit sorry for the way they'd acted, and let him come out into a decent room and tried to take a little better care of him. But it was too late, for he died soon afterward,—as I should think he would after standing that kind of treatment for three years.

Carol and I got so worked up over the thing that we almost cried. We felt awfully to think that a poor, innocent, little chap should be treated that way by people who were fighting for liberty and justice, as the French were. It didn't make any difference if he was a king's son. He had just as much right to be fairly treated as any one, and more, because he was so little and helpless. I don't wonder that Monsieur said he was one of the world's heroic martyrs. One book said that he was always so sweet and gentle and winning. His pretty manner at times even softened the hearts of some of his cruel jailers.

Well, that's the history of the dauphin. He would have been Louis XVII, if he had lived to become a king. The portrait of him must have been painted before all the trouble broke out. At that time the poor little fellow could not have dreamed what he was going to suffer later. It's well that he didn't know.

As there didn't seem to be any more to find out, we decided we'd better go home.

I was longing for a chance to tell the Imp what we'd discovered, but she had a bad sore-throat from getting her feet wet this afternoon, and Mother had put her to bed. So I must wait till to-morrow. But since I've had an opportunity to sit down and think this all over quietly, I've been trying to see what connection all these things can possibly have with affairs across the Green. So far, however, nothing but unanswered questions has been the result.

For instance, I can not understand why Monsieur should consider that portrait as one of his most treasured possessions. Of course the story about the boy is terribly sad, but unless he was some relative of Monsieur's (which is quite impossible), why should Monsieur cherish the picture? He never saw the child, and can't possibly have any affection for him. I don't understand it. And what are those two other pictures, so carefully covered? Perhaps they are more portraits of the same child, painted later and too sad to be looked at? I'd love to know.

I wonder, too, if Louis knew about this dauphin, would he still continue to hate the picture? Or would he be afraid of it? I'm just crazy to tell him, yet I suppose it wouldn't be fair,—at present, anyway. Good gracious! An idea has just occurred to me. I happened to think of that strange dream Louis said he had when he was sick. Was there ever anything so curious? I remember that he said the little fellow seemed so changed, with ragged clothes and matted hair and tear-stained cheeks and a red cap on his head! Why, that is just the way one of those books described him after he was put in charge of the cobbler. Simon took away all his nice clothes and made him wear a red "liberty-cap," and forced him to sing the songs of the revolution and dance for him. And Louis dreamed all that change in his appearance, yet he doesn't know who the subject of the portrait is and very little, if anything, about this dauphin, in all probability. This is simply uncanny! I must tell Carol in the morning.

April 19. I haven't had a chance to write a thing in this journal for a week. We have been having the dressmaker. She's getting all our spring things in order, and I've had to help her and Mother with the sewing every spare minute that I've had. Father's been laid up, too, with an acute attack of rheumatism, and was in bed several days. For nearly half the week I didn't even go to school. So, altogether, I've been having a rather strenuous time.

But, all the same, I haven't forgotten our mystery for a single minute. Carol has kept me posted on anything new that has happened, though nothing special did happen till yesterday. She has been madly reading history ever since. She always did have a taste for it, and this has given her the inspiration to read up French history from the very beginning. She says she's finding it as interesting as a story. Well, maybe she is, but I'm sure I wouldn't.

One thing she said was that the more she read, the more she felt that the French weren't much to blame for what they did while getting rid of their kings and queens in that revolution. Of course they might have used gentler means, but they were probably too exasperated by the way they'd been downtrodden. From almost the beginning the reigning monarchs were a precious lot, evidently considering it their chief business in life to squeeze the most they could out of their subjects. Each one felt he'd lived in vain, apparently, if he hadn't gone his ancestor one better at that occupation! Carol says that Louis XVI seems to have been a lot better than most of them, but by that time the French were too furious to consider that, I suppose. Anyway, he had to suffer for what his ancestors had done.

We haven't seen much of Monsieur lately. Louis says he hasn't been well. This climate doesn't agree with him, and he has rheumatism and gout, and has caught a dreadful cold. I don't see why he stays here, if it makes him so miserable. Anyhow, he was in such bad shape that he decided to go to New York to spend a few days at a sanitarium, and Miss Yvonne had to take him there, for he was too sick to go alone. He went yesterday, and last night a queer thing happened. Carol told me about it this afternoon, giving the account as Louis told it to her while coming home from school on the trolley.

It seems that he and his uncle were sitting downstairs in the living-room when, about nine o'clock, they heard a dreadful crash upstairs, directly over their heads. They couldn't think what in the world it could be, and were so startled that neither of them moved or spoke for a moment. Then Louis jumped up, exclaiming:

"Something's the matter in Monsieur's room! That's right overhead. I'll go up and see."

At first his uncle didn't seem to want him to go, saying he'd rather go himself. But as he's very feeble and doesn't go upstairs often (his bedroom is on the lower floor), Louis wouldn't hear of it and insisted that at least they go together. So up they went.

When they reached Monsieur's room and struck a light, they saw that the picture of the boy had fallen to the floor and that the glass was broken. Evidently, the wire by which it was hung had become rusty and given way, for the picture is very heavy. Louis didn't think much of the occurrence. He merely remarked that he'd clean up the broken glass and get a glazier to come in the morning and put in a new one. Also, he said he'd get some new wire and rehang it.

But for some unknown reason old Mr. Meadows was nearly wild. He stood and wrung his hands, and walked up and down, as if something perfectly awful had happened. Louis couldn't make out what in the world was the matter with him. Finally he said:

"It's all right, Uncle. What are you so excited about? I'm going to have it all fixed up to-morrow. It will be as good as ever. The picture itself isn't damaged a bit."

But even then his uncle couldn't seem to calm down, and all Louis could get from him was this remark, repeated over and over:

"'Tis an evil omen! An unfortunate sign! On no account must Monsieur know of it!"

Louis said that was all right; he needn't know of it. The picture would be all fixed up long before Monsieur came back. And even Miss Yvonne needn't hear of it, for he'd see that it was in place before she came home to-day. This seemed to calm Mr. Meadows somewhat, and he finally consented to have it so. But all the evening he kept muttering, "An evil omen!" to himself, and acted uneasy. Louis says he doesn't see any sense in it. I can't say that I do either, even with what I know, and yet it does seem sort of queer.

I'm too tired to write much more to-night, and yet I must tell about how the Imp acted when we told her of what we'd unearthed in the histories about the dauphin.

We were awfully enthusiastic over telling her, for we felt sure she would think we'd done a good piece of work. As a matter of fact, Carol and I doubted very much whether the Imp could possibly have found out as much as we had, for we'd dug into things so thoroughly. We felt sure we were giving her some points she hadn't discovered, and we were rather proud of ourselves. Imagine our disgust when she remarked, after we'd finished:

"Well, you've done very nicely, children!" She always calls us "children" when she wants to be patronizing and unpleasant. I thought it strange that she should suddenly turn horrid, when she's acted so friendly of late.

"Don't be hateful," I said, "but admit that we have given you some good points."

"I don't mean to be hateful," she retorted, "but it makes me mad to see how little you girls use your brains."

"I don't think that's a nice remark," I said, "but I'll forgive you for it, if you'll be kind enough to explain what you mean."

"Why, just this," she answered. "There are one, two,—yes, three points in things you know about that you haven't connected with this picture or this history at all, so far as I can see."

"What are they?" I demanded.

"You know that I can't tell you," she replied. "I can only advise you to use your brains and your memories."

"Anything else?" I inquired, as mildly as I could, for by that time I was getting furious with her.

"Yes, one thing more," she said. "You were trying to be patronizing, weren't you, when you asked me if you hadn't given me some good points. As if it wasn't I who put you on the right track in the beginning! I've always said that you two were an ungrateful pair, and now I'm sure of it. I'll give you just one more piece of information, and then I'm through. You thought you had discovered more than I have? Why, I've unearthed so much more that you haven't even touched or suspected that you'd be perfectly amazed, if you knew what I do!" With that, she flounced out of the room.

I can't help but believe the Imp, mad as she has made me. Goodness knows when she'll come round to being amiable again, for once she goes off on a tangent like this, she stays off for a good long while. It's too bad!

What in the world can those three things be that she was talking about?