"S-sh! Mademoiselle did not know that----"

"That what?"

"Better tell her, sister," encouraged the other woman.

"That Sister Agnes was--was suspected of being a creature of the Secret Police?"

"N-no, madame," faltered the girl,--"I don't understand. And if----"

"And we are for the restoration----"

"The restoration----"

"Of the throne of France."

"Is it Inspector Loup?" asked Fouchette, suddenly recalling that personage.

"Inspector Loup,--it is he who is responsible for the withdrawal of Sister Agnes, mademoiselle."

"Paris,--I will go to Paris!" said Fouchette, brightening up all at once.

To the two who heard her it was as if Fouchette had said, "I will go to the moon."

She slipped from between them and darted down the corridor. Before they had recovered from their astonishment she was out of the building and out of sight.

Nothing could have been more absurd.

But one girl had succeeded in scaling the high walls that surrounded the establishment of Le Bon Pasteur, and she had been pursued by savage dogs kept for such exigencies and brought back in mere shreds of clothing, with her flesh terribly lacerated. Even once outside, if the feat were possible and the dogs avoided, how was a bareheaded girl without a sou to get to Paris, three hundred kilometres? And, that surmounted, what would become of her in Paris?

It was absurd. It was impossible.

Meanwhile, Fouchette evaded the now lighted buildings in the rear and was skirting the high walls towards the north with the fleetness of a young deer.

The grounds of Le Bon Pasteur embraced about ten acres, a well-wooded section of an ancient park, the buildings, old and new, being on the side next to the town. By day one might easily see from wall to wall, the lowest branches of the trees being well clear of the ground, the latter being trampled gra.s.sless, hard, and smooth by thousands of youthful feet.

It was now growing too dark to see more than a few yards. This did not prevent Fouchette from making good speed. She knew every inch of the park. And as she ran her thoughts kept on well ahead.

She had started with the definite idea of leaving the place, but without the slightest idea of how that was to be accomplished. Like a frightened rabbit running an enclosure, she sought in vain for some unheard-of opening,--some breach in the wall, some projections by which she might scale the frowning barrier.

Now and then she paused to listen intently. There were no pursuers, apparently. Her heart sank rather than rose at the thought; for it implied that the chances of her escape were not considered worth an energetic effort,--that she must inevitably return of her own accord.

Fouchette was mistaken. It was only that the pursuers were not so sure of their route and were not so fleet of foot. They had called in re-enforcements and were approaching in extended order beneath the trees, with the moral certainty of rounding her up.

As soon as Fouchette realized this she felt that she was lost. There was no place to hide from such a search,--then they could let loose the dogs!

With a fresh energy born of desperation she sprang at the chestnut-tree in front of her and began to shin up the rough trunk, boy fashion. Like most generalizations, the statement that a woman cannot climb a tree is not an axiomatic truth. It depends wholly upon the woman and the occasion. Fouchette had often amused her playmates by going up trees, and was considered a valuable addition to any party of chestnut hunters. So in this instance the woman and the occasion met. She was securely perched in the foliage when the scouting party went by. One sister walked directly beneath the tree.

"We ought to have brought the dogs," she muttered.

Fouchette was breathless.

Immediate danger past, she began to think of what she should do next.

She could not remain up there forever; and if she came down she would be just where she was before,--would probably be run down by the dogs.

Presently she saw a light glimmering through the trees. Cautiously pushing the leaves aside, she saw it more distinctly. It was bobbing up and down. It was a lantern. It was coming towards her. Being a lantern, it must be carried by somebody, and that this somebody was in search of her she had no doubt. All the world was out after her.

The lantern came closer. And then she saw the barbed iron wall immediately below her, between her and the lantern. It was outside, then; and the tree she was in seemed to overhang the wall.

A desperate hope arose within her,--scarcely a hope yet,--rather a vague fancy. They could not have spread the alarm outside so quickly,--the lantern and its bearer could have no reference to her escape.

It was now almost immediately beneath her, and she saw that it was borne by a stalwart young man. It was a chance,--a mere chance,--but she at once resolved to risk it.

"S-sh!"

The bearer of the lantern stopped, raised it high, and peered about in every direction.

"S-sh!" repeated Fouchette.

"S-sh yourself!" said the young man, evidently suspecting some trick.

"Not so loud if you please, monsieur."

"Not so--but where the devil are you, anyhow?" He had looked in every direction except the right one.

"Here," whispered Fouchette. "Up in the tree."

"Tonnerre! And what are you doing up there in the tree, mademoiselle?"

he inquired with astonishment, elevating his lantern so as to get a glimpse of the owner of the voice.

"Nothing," said Fouchette.

"Well, if this don't--say, mademoiselle."

"Please don't talk so loud, monsieur. They will hear you, and I will be lost."

"Indeed! So you're running away, eh?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"What for?"

"Because they are going to give me the douche, the paddle, and prison."

"The wretches!" whispered the young man through his half-set teeth.

"Then you'll help me, monsieur?" asked Fouchette, in a tone of entreaty.

"That I will," said he, promptly, "if I can. If you could swing yourself over the wall, now; but, dame! no girl can do that," he added half to himself.