"Thanks, mademoiselle!" said d.i.c.k, gratefully. "The word of mademoiselle must be final, ladies and gentlemen,--she is doubtless more recently from school than any of us."

Mademoiselle smiled slightly, and said no more, the old lady's look being directed at her in severe rebuke.

The stop for dinner caused a rearrangement of the pa.s.sengers as to the places in the diligence. d.i.c.k now found himself beside the dark-eyed girl, at whose other hand, in a corner, sat the old lady. At d.i.c.k's other side was Sir Hilary. The ladies' man-servant was outside. Having dined heavily, Sir Hilary fell asleep before the coach had gone far.

And, to d.i.c.k's unexpected pleasure, the old lady, after several preliminary nods, followed the fox-hunter's example. The other pa.s.sengers became engrossed in the adventures of the lieutenant and the comic stories of the abbe.

"Have you ever been in America, mademoiselle," said d.i.c.k, softly, "that you are so well informed about its towns?"

"No, monsieur," she answered, in as low a tone as his, "but, as you said, I am very recently from school. I have often studied the maps at the convent I left but yesterday."

The conversation thus entered upon continued during the whole afternoon, and was marked by an uninterrupted progress in mutual acquaintance and confidence. Under certain conditions, and between congenial persons, a closer intimacy may be reached in a half day's fellow-travelling than may otherwise be attained in a lifetime of occasional meetings. By the time the diligence neared Abbeville la Pucelle, d.i.c.k was the young lady's confidant as to these facts:

She was leaving her convent school to be married in Paris to a Chevalier of St. Louis, whom she regarded with aversion for the reason that he was almost old enough to be her grandfather. The marriage had been arranged by her father, an officer of the regiment of Picardy, whose sister was the old lady now taking her to Paris. With such antipathy and dread did the girl look forward to the marriage, that she had almost dared to meditate rebellion and flight, for she was not closely attached to her father, whose military duties kept him away from her, and she inherited from her dead mother a moderate fortune that could not be alienated from her. But she was under the domination of her aunt, who had helped arrange the marriage, the girl's father being on service.

"What else can I do?" she asked d.i.c.k, helplessly. "I dare not disobey my aunt, I have not the courage to resist her. I have felt like one half dead, since I left the convent, and in that condition I shall be led pa.s.sively through it all, till I find myself--oh, how can I endure it?"

"You shall not!" said d.i.c.k, with impulsive eagerness to play the chivalrous part. "You must not! I will save you from the intolerable fate!"

The girl looked at him in wonder. "If you could!" she whispered slowly, half in despair, half in newly risen hope.

At that moment, the diligence coming to a stop at the post inn at Abbeville, the aunt showed signs of waking. "Rely on me, I shall not desert you!" whispered d.i.c.k, and then very gallantly stooped and restored a handkerchief dropped by the aunt in the act of waking.

That evening, while Sir Hilary celebrated in many b.u.mpers the beauty of the girls of Abbeville, d.i.c.k thought over the situation of her whose eyes made the Abbeville virgins colorless and uninteresting. The only practicable way for her to avoid the marriage was by physical flight.

She might become a nun, but d.i.c.k could not tolerate the idea of so much charm buried for life in a convent, and she herself had not spoken of such a refuge. She might have friends or relations who would shelter and conceal her in her rebellion. But if this were not the case she would have only the protection and guidance of d.i.c.k, and there was but one condition on which she could accept those with safety to her honor.

Well, d.i.c.k was not a man to turn back after having given his a.s.surance; the girl was certainly charming and amiable, she had a small fortune to ensure her own comfort, and the thought of her perturbing glances reserved exclusively for some other man filled d.i.c.k with a kind of chagrin. Moreover, her name was Collette, and she looked the name.

The next day he got no chance to speak to her until the afternoon. Then, protected as before by the slumbering aunt on one side and the drowsy baronet on the other, the young people resumed their conversation. Was she still as much opposed to the marriage as ever? Oh, decidedly, far more so!--with a little terrified look at d.i.c.k. Had she any friends to whom she might go? None who would not betray her. No refuge whatever in mind? None whatever. Would she risk her father's displeasure and her aunt's, provided there were some one to stand between her and that displeasure? Why, yes, if such a situation were possible,--anything rather than the marriage. Would she be resigned to a marriage with a younger gentleman? Why, yes, if--that is to say--if--

"If," said d.i.c.k, in low tones, but with all due signs of feeling, "if the gentleman were an American, carried from his country by the wind of circ.u.mstance, with nothing in the world but the clothes on his back, a few louis in his pocket, and some land in the wilderness of Pennsylvania, but with a prospect of honorable employment for his country on reaching Paris, and with a hand that could be turned to anything and would ever be devoted to your honor and happiness?"

She raised her eyes, which had been lowered, and in meeting his their jetty brilliance took a humid softness as she answered, gently, "Is it of yourself that you speak, monsieur?"

So it was agreed upon, while the diligence rumbled past a gentle hillside crowned by a fair chateau flanked by oak woods. When they came in sight of the oak-topped ramparts of Amiens, their plans were complete. d.i.c.k was to have a hired carriage and post-horses ready near the inn, and Collette was to join him at the inn door as soon as her aunt and the servant should be abed. Riding all night and part of the next day, they could defy pursuit, and carry out their purpose at leisure. Though they should continue towards Paris, there would be no danger of being overtaken, especially by the diligence, which, because of bad weather and bad roads, was then making smaller than the usual daily stages, as any one acquainted with the country traversed will have seen. d.i.c.k preferred not yet to take Sir Hilary into confidence; he knew where to communicate with the baronet in due time in Paris.

Amiens was a large town with fine streets of well-built houses, and with a beautiful cathedral containing the head of John the Baptist; but d.i.c.k had no eye for these things on this occasion. At the inn Sir Hilary met two officers of the regiment of the Prince of Conde, on leave, and was soon lost in conversation and champagne, so that d.i.c.k was free to make his arrangements.

Fortunately, the purse pressed upon d.i.c.k by the baronet in Boulogne was still nearly full. He obtained a carriage from the diligence company, and two horses and a postilion from the postman at the inn. Soon after supper, while he paced before the inn door, in the cold evening, the cloaked and hooded figure of Collette appeared from within, noiselessly; whereupon he took her hand, and the pair hastened like ghosts to the waiting carriage, which rattled away with them a minute later. A twenty-four-sous piece, handed to the sentinel, caused the city gates, which had been closed for the night, to fly open, and the jack-booted postilion was soon swearing and singing, and whipping his horses, in the open country, on the road to Chantilly. Inside the carriage, the two young people sat silent, the girl perhaps trembling now and then at thought of the leap she had taken into the unknown, d.i.c.k somewhat sobered at the responsibility he had so speedily a.s.sumed. But he was, as usual, ready for anything, and often he pressed her hand to rea.s.sure her.

It was the night of Thursday, February 27, 1777. Evening had set in with increasing cold and a howling wind. Engrossed in their thoughts, d.i.c.k and Collette for two or three hours noticed not that the wind was constantly gaining in force and fury. Suddenly the carriage stopped, there was a brief wait, and the door was flung open.

"It is impossible to go farther to-night, monsieur," said the postilion, thrusting in his head. "One of the horses has cast a shoe and is very lame."

"But we _must_ go on," said d.i.c.k. "It is a matter of life and death."

"It is simply impossible," said the postilion, stubbornly.

"It cannot be impossible. Have I not paid half the post hire in advance?"

"Monsieur can go on, in the morning. There is an auberge a little distance ahead, where he and madame can pa.s.s the night. I will find a smith and have the horse shod in time to set out early."

"Are you sure it is the lameness of the horse, that moves you, or a desire to get indoors from the cold?" queried d.i.c.k.

"Monsieur l'Anglois has the privilege of thinking as it may please him.

Will he have me drive to the auberge, or will he remain here in the road all night?"

"Let him drive to the auberge, for heaven's sake!" whispered Collette, somewhat terrified.

The auberge, when reached, proved to be a miserable hut of three apartments,--stable, kitchen, and common sleeping-room. The host and his wife, visible by light of candle and by kitchen fire, were an evil-looking pair.

"Oh," said Collette, drawing back from the doorway, "I can never stay here!"

"There is no other place," said the postilion, with an impudent grin.

"I will find another place," said d.i.c.k, beginning to feel ugly towards the postilion. "I see a light on the hill yonder. It comes from the window of a chateau. Such a house will not refuse us hospitality, my Collette! You will drive us to that house, fellow!" And d.i.c.k lifted Mademoiselle Collette into the carriage.

"I will not drive one step!" said the postilion, insolently, with a careless crack of his whip.

d.i.c.k looked at the fellow a moment, strode up to him, wrenched the whip from his hand by an unexpected movement, and struck him two quick blows across the face with it.

"Drive us to that house!" said d.i.c.k.

The postilion mounted, without a word, and d.i.c.k, retaining the whip, joined Collette inside the carriage.

At the chateau, while Collette remained in the carriage, d.i.c.k got out to speak to the servant who opened the door in response to the postilion's knock. d.i.c.k so framed his message to the master of the house, that the latter himself came to the door, d.i.c.k remaining outside to guard Collette and the carriage. The master of the house, lighted by the candles in the entrance-hall, was an elderly gentleman, tall and slender, with a bright eye and a face at once kindly, distinguished, and intellectual.

"Monsieur," said d.i.c.k, in as good French as he could command, "a circ.u.mstance has made it impossible for me to continue to-night a journey I began in that carriage a few hours ago. The only inn near at hand is one where it would be equally impossible for the lady whom I have the honor to protect, to pa.s.s the night. The lady is now in the carriage, and--"

"Monsieur need say no more," replied the gentleman, in a most courteous and sympathetic tone. "My house shall be the lady's inn and your own.

There is no hostess yet to welcome her, but fortunately there is a maid, whom I shall send immediately. As for you, monsieur, when you have seen the lady cared for, Etienne will show you, if you choose, to the room in which I shall be at supper. The lady will doubtless prefer to sup in her own apartment."

"I thank you, monsieur, but we have supped already. I will do myself the honor to join you, nevertheless, and make myself better acquainted with so courteous a gentleman."

The gentleman smiled, bowed, and disappeared through an inner door. d.i.c.k returned to Collette.

"A maid will come for you in a moment," said he. "Our host is a most charming gentleman, both in act and in appearance."

"I did not look out of the carriage to see him," said Collette, taking d.i.c.k's hand and stepping to the ground. "Why, how strange that I should be a guest at this house! I recognize it now. It is one that I have often noticed while riding past in the road below. I have always wished I might live in it."

A maid now appeared at the doorway. Collette took leave of d.i.c.k for the night, saying she desired nothing further and would defer till morning her meeting with the master of the house. d.i.c.k thereupon sent the shivering postilion, with horses, carriage, and whip, back to the auberge, and asked Etienne, the servant who had let him in, and who still stood in the entrance-hall, to show him to the supper table.

In a richly furnished room, softly lighted by wax candles, and warmed by fragrant f.a.gots in a small fireplace, he found his considerate host seated at a well-filled table, opposite a round-faced priest, still under middle age, who beamed with merriment and good nature. d.i.c.k announced his name, and was thereupon introduced to the Abbe Foyard by the master of the house, who then said:

"Monsieur will pardon me, I am sure, if I adhere--merely for the sake of habit--to the incognito I am preserving in this neighborhood at present.

I do not wish my name to get abroad as the new purchaser of this estate."

"My obligations are no less for my not knowing to whom they are due, monsieur," said d.i.c.k, taking the seat to which his host motioned him, at the table. He would eat nothing, but he would drink some wine, and he joined in a toast of Burgundy, proposed by the Abbe, with a twinkling eye, to "Madame la Comtesse that is to be."

From the fact that in the ensuing conversation the Abbe addressed the master of the house as Monsieur le Comte, d.i.c.k soon understood the toast, the Abbe's look of sly merriment, and the half pleased, half chiding expression of the Count himself. The bottle went round often, and the talk became unconstrained. d.i.c.k made it known that he was an American, whereupon he was plied with many questions concerning the war, and particularly concerning the personality of Washington. The Count then said he had seen that great philosopher, Franklin, in Paris, honored by beautiful women and celebrated men, among whom he appeared in his plain coat, as if the simplicity of the ancient sages had been in him revived.