To Sue, the night that followed seemed endless. The mere idea that Carol had actually discovered something, and then hadn't even had a chance to give her the faintest inkling about it, was enough to keep her from a wink of sleep. But dawn came at last, and with the first light she was up and dressing frantically. If she had thought of it, she might have known that her chum would not be about for the next three hours. Breakfast on that day was only an empty form, and no sooner was it over than Sue snatched up her books and rushed madly from the house, much to the amazement of the rest of her family.
Never doubting that she would hear the whole story from Carol as they walked to the village, she was filled with despair when she found that Carol's Aunt Agatha proposed to walk down with them, in order that they might assist her to carry a heavy basket of things she was taking to some sick woman in the village. Aunt Agatha's progress was slow, and to Sue's agonized signals Carol could only shake her head and dumbly signify that her friend must wait till later for revelations.
But even this was not the end. Also waiting for the trolley was Louis.
"Do you mind telling him, too?" whispered Sue.
"I'd rather not," returned Carol. "I really don't think I ought to yet!"
This only added to the mystery. Louis wondered much at their unresponsiveness that morning, and, in fact, during all the school day and the returning trip that afternoon. For not another moment offered itself as entirely suitable to the tale that Carol was to unfold. Once they had reached the Green, however, Louis betook himself about his own affairs, and the two girls were left alone with their secret.
"Come up to the den in our barn," said Carol. "That's where I want to tell you."
"But it'll be cold," objected Sue. "Can't you come into the house?"
"No. I don't want to be interrupted, and I've something to show you," insisted Carol darkly.
Consumed with wonder, Sue obediently followed her up the hay-loft ladder, and they locked themselves into the chilly, hay-scented den.
"Now do begin at once!" exclaimed Sue. "I never spent such an awful, maddening day of suspense in my life. Don't wait a minute!"
"I'm just as crazy to tell you as you are to hear it," responded Carol. "Do you think I haven't been boiling with impatience all day? Well, here goes! Susette, it's the queerest thing in the world, the way I happened across this. It's all through Miss Cullingford. That day, after I'd described the picture to her as well as I could, I remember that she looked puzzled and said, 'That somehow sounds familiar to me.' But I didn't think anything of the remark at the time, because I was too interested in what she was going to say about my poem, and I soon forgot it. But yesterday, when I went to her after school, she asked me if I'd recognize the picture if I saw it again, and I said that of course I would. Then she suddenly drew a book out of her desk and opened it at a certain page. And, Sue, will you believe me when I tell you? There was a copy of that very same picture, right before my eyes!"
"Well, for goodness sake, tell me who it was, or I'll die of curiosity!" cried Sue impatiently.
"That's just what I don't know," Carol answered. "But I have the book here. It belongs to Miss Cullingford, and she offered to lend it to me. Of course, when I saw it, I acted surprised, but not half as much so as I felt, because I didn't want to have to tell her anything about Louis. I only said that it seemed to be the same picture, and she said it must have been some copy that I'd seen, for the portrait was a famous one, painted by a famous artist. Then she went on to criticize my poem, and made one or two suggestions about some little changes in it. She said that if I made them, she thought the poem stood a fair chance of winning the prize. Then she offered to lend me the book to take home and read, because she thought I might be interested in it. She little knew how desperately interested I was! But come! Let's look at it for ourselves, and see if we can find out anything we'd like to know."
Carol took the book out of a desk where she had locked it, and opened it at a certain page. And there, staring right up at them, was the selfsame picture that hung in Monsieur's room,—the "boy of nut-brown hair and smiling eyes." Only of course the picture was in black and white, not colored as in the oil-painting. But it was the same; you couldn't mistake it. And underneath the portrait it said, "The Dauphin of France."
"Carol," said Sue, after she'd read it, "will you tell me what on earth a 'dauphin' is?"
"I haven't the faintest idea," answered the other. "I never heard the word before, and I haven't had a chance to look it up anywhere. It looks something like the word 'dolphin.' Perhaps it's the French for it. And yet I don't think that is likely. A dolphin is some kind of a sea-creature, like a porpoise, isn't it? So it couldn't have any such meaning here."
"But what is this book?" asked Sue.
They looked at the title, and it was, "Memoirs of Madame Lebrun." Carol said that Miss Cullingford had told her that it was an account of the life of a famous French artist and of the pictures she had painted. As that didn't give them any special help, they turned the pages eagerly, but couldn't seem to find out a thing about this particular picture that interested them.
"Wait a minute," said Carol. "I'll run into the house and look up the word in our big dictionary. Maybe I can find it there."
She came flying back after a few moments, all excitement, panting:
"It was there! I didn't dare hope it would be. It gave a whole lot about how the word originated. We weren't so far off the track when we thought of 'dolphin.' It did come from that! But anyhow, the principal meaning was, 'The eldest son of the King of France. The heir to the throne.' It also says that there isn't any such title in France now."
After that they just sat and stared at the picture in silent amazement. What in the world could it all mean? If they'd been confused before, they were now more muddled than ever. Suddenly an idea occurred to Sue.
"Which dauphin do you suppose it was?" she questioned. "There must have been a lot of them."
"Maybe we could find out if we read the book through," suggested Carol helplessly.
The task, indeed, appeared herculean. Neither of the girls were in the least interested in memoirs, or in any other literature of that "dull" class. Both had frequently acknowledged that only stories of adventure and mystery and excitement contained the least interest for them. There seemed, however, no other way out of this tangle.
"Well, all right! If we must, we must, I suppose," said Sue. "I'd attempt 'most anything for the sake of solving this mystery. Suppose we read it aloud, turn and turn about. But for goodness sake, don't let's try to do it up here. We'll freeze. What if people do see us with it? They'll probably only think we're reading it for study. The Imp might suspect something, but she—"
Suddenly Carol interrupted with:
"See here! Why not tell the Imp? She's evidently found out a lot of things on her own hook, and she even said she might tell us about them some time, if she could. Perhaps we've got ahead of her on this. I'd just enjoy getting ahead of her for once! Let's tell her and see what happens."
It was now Sue's turn to demur. Carol was so insistent, however, that she finally gave a reluctant consent, and they went out to hunt up the Imp. A little triumphantly Sue led her younger sister up to the loft, and with just a touch of patronage she promised her the surprise of her life when she got there. But to their intense chagrin, the two girls found, as they had discovered many times before, that they had, so to speak, to get up very early in the morning to get ahead of the Imp.
"Look!" cried Carol, exhibiting the picture. "What do you think of that?"
The Imp gave it only one disdainful glance.
"Huh!" she sniffed. "Aren't you a little late in the day? I discovered the same thing about a month ago in the same book, or in one just like it!"
The two sat staring at her in stunned silence. Then Carol glanced at the book.
"It's so, Sue," she murmured. "It's the very same kind of a book that we saw her showing to Monsieur that day. Look at the light green cover."
It was indeed the same! But the Imp had had her triumph and now could afford to be magnanimous.
"Since you've discovered the same thing," she said, "I'll tell you how I happened to come across it. Our teacher, Miss Hastings, recently brought and hung up in the schoolroom some pretty new pictures. One that I liked very much was called 'The Girl with the Muff.' One day I asked Miss Hastings something about it, and she told me who the artist was and said there was a book in the library about her, with pictures of her other paintings in it. Next day she brought the book to school and let me look at it. And, girls, it was this book, or one like it, and while I was looking it over I almost jumped out of my shoes to come across this very picture. I didn't say a word about it, though, but just went and joined the library and got the book out and read it all."
"And did you find out who this dauphin was?" Sue asked breathlessly.
"I certainly did," answered the Imp, "and a whole lot more besides."
"Well, who was he, then?"
"I wonder if I ought to tell you?" said the Imp reflectively. "You see I promised Monsieur I wouldn't say anything about what I had discovered. As you can guess now, I showed it to him, and it quite took him off his feet with surprise. He begged me to say nothing about it to any one."
"Look here!" exclaimed Sue suddenly. "You told us once, quite a long while ago, that you asked Monsieur one day who the picture of the 'nice little boy' in his room was, and that he told you then. So how could he be surprised when you found it out later?"
Sue thought she'd surely caught the Imp that time. But the other only laughed.
"He only told me just what you said he told Louis—that it was one of the world's 'heroic martyrs.' I was teasing you girls into thinking I knew it all. You'd been pretty hateful to me just around that time."
"I thought as much!" said Sue. "But we'll forgive you now, if you'll tell us what you know. There can't be any harm in it, since we've discovered just what you have."
But the Imp wouldn't have been herself, if she had acted in a way like ordinary folks. She stood and thought it over for a moment, keeping them on tenter-hooks all the time. Then she remarked:
"No, I don't honestly think it would be keeping my promise, if I said a word to you about it. I'm going to keep that, whatever else I do. But I'll open the book at one picture before I go, and that's all the hint I'm going to give you." She took the book and laid it open at a certain place, and then dashed down the stairs before they had time to say another word.
The two girls almost fell over each other in their hurry to see what the picture was. It was a beautiful woman, and underneath it were the words, "Marie Antoinette."
"What in the world has she got to do with it?" demanded Sue. "Of course we all know who she was. Didn't she get killed, or something, in the French Revolution? But what has that to do with this dauphin?"
"Perhaps she was some relation," suggested Carol. "If she was the queen, maybe he was her son?"
"Tell you what!" Sue interrupted. "Let's go to the library to-morrow and hunt up some book on the French Revolution, or some other French history, and see if we can clear this thing up. I'm not going to wade through this book. It doesn't seem to say a thing about what we want to know."
Carol agreed that this seemed the best course to pursue. Plainly, it would be useless to consult "Madame Lebrun" any further. They took the green book that had given them its startling revelation and hid it safely in the desk. Then they turned to go. Suddenly Carol faced her friend.
"Susette Birdsey, what do you make of all this, anyway? What has it to do with Monsieur and—with Louis?"
"I'm as much at sea as ever," admitted Sue.
"Well, you remember what I told you the other day," remarked Carol impressively. "There's more here than we have ever dreamed. I'm more firmly convinced of that than ever!"
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?
May 1, 1914. Nothing special has happened during the last two weeks that is worth writing about. Carol and I haven't made the least progress in solving the riddles I last mentioned. The Imp fulfilled all my expectations, and has been most objectionable ever since that day. Queer how she turns completely around at times, especially when she feels the least bit touchy, and acts as if we were her mortal enemies. She has hardly spoken to us lately.
Monsieur came home from his sanitarium, and seems a lot improved. The weather is lovely, anyhow, and he stays outdoors a good deal, so I suppose that helps, too. Carol and I have had several interesting talks with him. You can't help seeing a good deal of your neighbors in this shut-off spot around the Green, when the weather is nice, and even Monsieur seems to have become used to strolling over and having little friendly chats with us. He has "thawed out" a lot, and actually seems quite human now. The Imp is still his favorite, of course, but he has come to realize our existence when she isn't about.
What I wanted specially to write about to-night was the delightful time we had to-day. Louis gave us all a treat, and besides providing such a good time, he also gave us the surprise of our lives. There was to be a big aviation exhibition over in Bridgeton this afternoon, and yesterday Louis gave us all invitations to go with him and see it. He said he had unusually good seats on the flying field. It was something we wouldn't have missed for anything, and so we all went,—Dave, Carol, and myself, and even the Imp. Louis said he had invited Monsieur, too, but Monsieur did not care to go, not feeling as well as usual to-day.
I've never seen an aëroplane near by before. To tell the truth, the nearest I ever did see one was probably a thousand feet up in the air, sailing over our house one time. We had gorgeous seats right in front, and could see everything plainly. I was so thrilled when the first one rolled out and soared up majestically that I could have risen and shouted myself hoarse. Carol had to pull me down once, to keep me from tumbling right over the railing in my excitement. But that was nothing to what was to come. We were so absorbed that we didn't notice that after a while Louis slipped away and disappeared. What was our astonishment to see him suddenly strolling down the field in a regular aviator's costume, with a helmet in his hand. He came over to us, laughing, and said:
"I know I've given you all a shock, that is, all except Dave. He's been in the secret. But I might as well up and confess my crimes now. I've been mad about this aviation business for a year or more, and I have been studying it secretly for some time. A fellow I know here in Bridgeton has a machine and is to fly to-day. His name is Page Calvin. He hasn't gone up yet. I've studied and worked on his machine till I know it by heart, but I've never been up in it yet. To-day he's going to take me up, and if I stand it all right,—some people can't, you know,—why then it's aviation for me, in preference to everything else!"
Well, we were so thunderstruck that we couldn't say a word for a moment, and just gasped. At last I managed to stammer:
"And—and is Dave going in for this, too?"
"Not I!" said Dave. "I haven't any head for it. I get too dizzy. But I'm going to help Louis build a model aëroplane when we've finished that motor-boat. I'm interested in the mechanical part of it."
"But what about Monsieur?" Carol asked Louis. "Have you told him about this?"
"No, I haven't," said Louis. "That's why I wanted him to come to-day, so that I could surprise him, too. I'm sorry he couldn't—"
Just then some one came and told Louis that the biplane he was to go up in was ready, so that he said good-bye and walked away. We watched him put on his helmet and climb into the machine, and I confess now that I never expected to see him alive again. It's all right when some one you don't know is going up; you're just excited and thrilled. But when it's some one that you do, you're simply frozen stiff with fright, and you're morally certain that he'll come crashing to earth any second!
Carol and I gripped hands and held our breath, and I believe it was the longest fifteen minutes I ever knew or expect to know. They sailed completely out of sight for a while, and then the suspense was worse. But at last the biplane came back and settled on the field as gracefully as a bird. Louis was wild with excitement when he returned to us, and he says it's the most wonderful experience imaginable. The Imp was so worked up over it that she wanted Louis to persuade his friend to take her up and "loop the loop"! He laughed, and told her it was not allowed, but I believe that for a while she really thought she could tease him into it.
There was one other exciting thing that happened. Toward the last a machine went up and something went wrong with the engine when it was about two hundred and fifty feet in the air. It began to droop over in a sort of lopsided fashion, and then began to settle, like a bird that has been wounded in the wing. Before it reached the ground it was almost upside down, and every one was nearly frantic, thinking the man in it would fall out. But he didn't, and at last it came to earth with quite a crash. A lot of people rushed to help the aviator out, Louis among them. He wasn't killed, but they said he had a badly fractured arm, and we saw him being fairly carried off the field. It made me actually sick to think what a horribly dangerous career Louis was letting himself in for. But it didn't seem to disturb him a bit. All he would say was that a careful aviator would never let a thing like that happen.
It was late when we came home, so we invited Louis and Carol over to our house to tea, and had a jolly evening afterward.
I've had a gorgeous day and, as Louis said, "the surprise of my life." But I cannot help wondering how Monsieur is going to take this piece of news.
It was the day after Louis's great surprise, and, since it was Saturday, he was out in the barn hard at work putting the finishing touches to the motor-boat that was to be launched on the river during the coming week. Carol, Sue, and the Imp had also drifted over to admire the "toot-and-scramble," as the Imp insisted on pronouncing Louis's favorite French expression, tout ensemble.
"Won't it be jolly to have our first picnic up the river in her?" remarked the boy, stopping to glance critically at a stroke of varnish he had just administered. "Do you know, I really began this boat just to get my hand into that kind of mechanical work, but I believe we're going to have a lot of fun out of her, too. However, just you wait till I begin my biplane—"
At that moment a shadow fell across the doorway, and the figure of Monsieur entered unexpectedly behind the group.
"Bon matin," he began, as was his custom. Then suddenly and sharply he added in English to Louis, "What is that you say?"
"Good-morning," said Louis, politely. "I haven't seen you, sir, since our expedition yesterday, or I would have told you what I told the girls at the aviation field. I hope you'll be pleased."
With a visible effort, for, in reality, he greatly dreaded this revelation to Monsieur, yet simply and directly he told the old gentleman what he had said and done on the previous day.
The result was as unexpected as it was distressing. Not one of the listeners but was fully prepared to see the excitable French gentleman rage and storm and attempt to forbid Louis to engage in so dangerous a pursuit. From all they had heard of him, they could imagine no other course of action. They were entirely unprepared, however, for the strange quiet with which he received the news. It was not till Louis began to tell of yesterday's flight that Monsieur suddenly raised his hand and cried in a low voice:
"Stop! A chair, if you please! I—I feel very—ill!"
Not till then did they notice the strange, gray pallor that had crept into his face. Louis hurried into the main part of the barn and came back with a rickety chair. When he had placed it, Monsieur sat down heavily and, groaning slightly, pressed his hand to his side.
"Hurry in—to—Mademoiselle Yvonne!" he gasped. "Tell her—bring my medicine. My heart! It—it has been weak for years!"
Louis dashed out of the barn to obey his command, and Carol dashed after him, glad to get away from the sight of physical suffering. But the Imp and Sue stayed with the old gentleman, the Imp steadying him in his chair with her strong young arm, for he seemed to be slipping down. Sue began fanning him frantically with a newspaper. It seemed as if the other two were gone for an age, and, in fact, they were gone longer than might have been expected, for Miss Yvonne was not about the house and had to be hunted up in the big garden.
Before they came back, however, Monsieur appeared to grow a trifle easier. But the only word he said during the absence of the others was just before they came back with Miss Yvonne.
"It is useless!" they heard him murmur, and the Imp, bending over, asked him what he had said and if they could do anything. But he acted hardly aware of her presence, and went on murmuring something in French. Then the others returned, bringing Miss Yvonne, breathless and excited, but carrying a bottle and spoon. A few moments after taking the medicine Monsieur seemed easier, and with the help of all he managed to get back to the house.
"It's all right now," Louis told the girls. "He says he will go to bed and rest, but the worst of the attack is past. Don't you worry."
The three girls wandered back across the Green, subdued and upset by what had happened. Even the Imp was apparently forgetful of her past grievances toward the others.
"I wonder what he was trying to say?" marvelled Sue, as the three roamed aimlessly toward Carol's barn. "Did you catch it, Bobs? You were nearest to him, and I think he spoke in French."
"Yes, I caught it," said the Imp, turning to them suddenly. "And look here, girls, I believe I might as well tell you the whole thing now, if you care to hear. I'm getting tired of the worry of carrying this thing around by myself!"
If she had exploded a bomb in their midst, she could not have startled them more.
"Gracious! What has made you change so?" demanded Sue, wonderingly.
"Well, I feel kind of upset by what has happened this morning," admitted the Imp, "and so I feel like getting this thing off my mind. Do you know what he was muttering in French, as he sat there? It was this: 'It is useless to try any longer to keep the secret. I must tell him at once'!"
"So you see, if he tells Louis," went on the Imp, "there's no reason, so far as I can see, why I shouldn't tell you now. Come up into your den, and I'll tell you all I know!"
She began to climb the ladder to the haymow, and the two followed her, silent with amazement.
The three filed into the den off the haymow, and Carol solemnly padlocked the door on the inside. As there were only two chairs, the Imp perched herself on the old desk, curling her feet up under her. The one window was wide open, and through it was wafted the scent of lilacs and the sound of a lawn-mower propelled by Dave somewhere across the Green. For a moment after they were seated no one spoke.
"Well?" said Carol, impatiently. "Go on, Imp! Begin somewhere."
"I was just wondering where to begin," admitted the Imp. "I was trying to remember what you actually do know, but I guess, except for the fact as to who that picture is, you don't know a single thing."
"You once said," Sue reminded her, "that there were three things we actually knew that we hadn't connected with this affair. We've tried and tried to think what they were, but somehow we never could seem to strike them. Perhaps you'd better begin with them."
But the Imp ignored this suggestion.
"I suppose it has dawned on you that that picture has some connection with Louis?" she asked.
"We've thought of it, but it seemed so impossible that we finally gave up the idea," replied Sue. "What could it possibly have to do with him?"
"Everything," answered the Imp briefly.
"Go on, then!" commanded Sue. "You've kept us on tenter-hooks long enough. If you're going to tell us at all, do please begin at the beginning, and don't stop till you're through."
"The trouble is just this," admitted the Imp. "I don't actually know anything much at all. It's just guesswork, except for one or two things. You seem to think Monsieur has told me the whole business. Well, he hasn't,—not a single thing,—except that I was right about knowing who that portrait was, and he asked me not to say anything about it, especially to Louis. Everything else I've worked out for myself, and it may be all wrong; but somehow I don't think it is."
The two listeners looked crestfallen. For some time past they had come to believe that the Imp was wholly and entirely in Monsieur's confidence. It was a shock to learn the truth. Carol immediately intimated as much to the assembled company.
"You're a pack of sillies," exclaimed the Imp scornfully, "to imagine such a thing, anyway! Why, this thing is of—of immense importance to—well, I was almost going to say to the whole world. Do you suppose for one moment that a youngster would be let into such an important secret?"
"What are you saying? 'To the whole world'?" cried Carol. "Are you going crazy, or do you think you are taking us in again with some of your nonsense?"
"I'm not talking nonsense, and I'll prove it. Do you know what I discovered by reading a little more than you did at the library, and also from an old book that Miss Hastings lent me, because I told her I was interested in the subject? Well, I found out that, although most people think it's a settled fact that that poor little dauphin died in prison, still there are a lot of legends that he really escaped, that he was helped to escape by some of the Royalists, and that the little boy who died there wasn't the dauphin at all!"
The Imp stopped to let this startling news sink into the minds of her hearers.
"But—but—" stammered Sue, "if he escaped, what became of him?"
"That's something that never was known," answered the Imp. "After the downfall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bourbons in France, there were a lot of pretenders who said they were the escaped dauphin and claimed the throne. But they never could prove it, so no one paid much attention to them. Only you see there must have been some truth in it,—his escape, I mean,—or no one would have thought of such a thing."
"But I don't see, anyway, what all that has to do with this affair," remarked Carol.
"Don't you?" replied the Imp coldly. "Then you're more stupid than I gave you credit for being."
Carol quite wilted under this rebuke, but Sue, who had been doing some rapid thinking, cried:
"Mercy! It can't be possible that—"
"Wait a minute," interrupted the Imp. "I'm going to answer your question about those three things, and see what you make of it. Do you remember what they used to call Louis XVI—the people, I mean? I'm sure you know, because you mentioned it to me that day you were telling me what you'd found out."
"'Louis the Locksmith,'" answered Carol promptly.
"Right," said the Imp. "Does that make you think of anything?"
Carol shook her head.
"Oh, you're hopeless!" groaned the Imp. "Try the next one. When Louis was sick one time Monsieur stood over him murmuring something about 'the Temple look.' Does that convey anything to your mind?"
"It does to mine," interrupted Sue. "Oh, I believe I'm beginning to understand."
But Carol still looked hopelessly confused.
"Well, here's the last," went on the Imp. "Why should Monsieur and all the others treat Louis in the queer way they do? Why should Louis have found Monsieur kissing his hand that time?"
"Oh, please explain clearly, Bobs!" moaned Carol. "You mix me up so, firing questions at me, that I can't think at all. Just say straight out what it is."
"All right, I will. I'll say it in words of one syllable, suitable to your infant mind," laughed the Imp. "It may sound like the craziest idea that ever was imagined, but I believe Louis to be a descendant of that little dauphin, and I believe Monsieur knows it and the Meadows people, too."
The conjecture was so stupefying in its scope that the three girls sat for a moment in dumb, confused wonder.
"I can't believe it," murmured Carol, at length. "Right here on little Paradise Green, way out of the world, to have such a thing happen? Impossible!"
"It's no stranger than lots of other things that have happened in history," asserted the Imp, "when you come to think it over. And it's so possible, too."
"But here, here!" cried Sue. "What in the world would Louis be doing in America? I could believe it more easily if we lived somewhere in France."
"I read in one book," replied the Imp to this objection, "that there was a rumor that after the dauphin escaped he was taken to America. There was an American Indian, named Eleazar Williams, or something like that, who claimed to be the dauphin. So you see it's not so impossible, after all."
"Now I begin to see," remarked Carol, after a long pause, "what you meant by some of those three things. If Monsieur thinks Louis is a descendant of the dauphin, I can understand why they all treat him with such respect. Why, girls," she cried enthusiastically, "just think,—Louis—our Louis—may have royal blood in his veins! I simply can't believe it!"
"That remark about 'the Temple look' meant, I suppose," murmured Sue, "that Louis looked so awfully when he was sick that it reminded Monsieur how the dauphin must have appeared after his bad treatment and illness in the Temple Tower. That never occurred to me. But I can't yet see any connection with what you said about 'Louis the Locksmith.'"
"That's easy," answered the Imp. "It was one of the first things I thought of. Don't you remember how Louis XVI was always tinkering with things and fixing locks, and how fond he was of mechanical work? The whole court used to resent it. Well, the Meadows and Monsieur evidently think that Louis has inherited that trait, and it drives them wild. Don't you remember what Louis told us Miss Yvonne once said when she found him fixing the lock on the kitchen-door? 'The ancient blood! It will ruin everything!' Doesn't that indicate what they think?"
"True enough," Sue had to admit. "But what foolishness all this is, girls, when you think of Louis's history and the history of his family! I was asking Father about Louis's folks not long ago, just out of curiosity. He said that the Durants had lived in and owned that house across the Green for many, many years, even longer than our descendants have lived in our house. It was way back in the eighties when Louis's father left here and went out West. He was a young man then, about Father's age. In fact, they'd gone to school together. But this Charles Durant went away out West to better himself, and rented the old house on this Green. Father says he never saw him again, because Charles Durant and the wife he'd married out there were suddenly killed in an accident. The first Father heard about it was when old Mr. Meadows and his daughter, whom nobody had ever seen before, came to this place with the tiny baby who was Louis, and settled here for good. They never said much about themselves, except that they were old friends of the Durant family and that they had always lived in France. They explained that they had come over here to take care of and bring up the last Durant baby, since its parents had been killed. Now will you tell me how anything about a dauphin could come in there?"
"Maybe they didn't bring the baby from out West," suggested Carol, "but brought him over from France with them. Maybe he isn't a Durant at all."
"That's possible, too," said the Imp, "but, after all, it doesn't make any difference where he came from, does it, if Louis is what we think he is?"
"But who is this 'Monsieur,' and what has he to do with the whole thing?" suddenly cried Carol.
"That," admitted the Imp, "is what I can't figure out. I'm sure he must be some relative. They say there are descendants of the Bourbons still living. It wouldn't be strange if he wanted to hunt up a long-lost relative, but why he should make such a secret of it is beyond me."
"Bobs," cried Sue, suddenly going off at a tangent, "have you any idea about those two other pictures in Monsieur's room,—the ones all covered up? I've stayed awake nights trying to guess who on earth they could be, and why he keeps them covered."
"Why, of course I don't know," laughed the Imp, "but I can make a good guess. I believe they're portraits of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. I can't imagine why he keeps them covered, unless it's to keep Louis or any one else from guessing anything about this affair. Of course they're very well-known portraits, and almost any child would know who they were at first sight. But it's different with the dauphin. Very few people know that picture by sight. That's the only reason I can think of."
It seemed such a simple explanation, after they'd heard it, that both girls felt a little chagrined to think that they'd never had the wit to work out this easy problem. But so humble were they now, after the Imp's astounding revelation, that they were willing to admit their inferior wit twenty times over.
It was Sue who presently voiced the unspoken thought that was in each mind.
"I wonder how Louis will take all this?" she sighed.
This was a matter that went beyond their conjecture. How, indeed, would Louis take it?
May 17, 1914. It may seem a strange thing, but two whole weeks have gone by since the Imp told us what she did, and nothing has happened at all. By "nothing" I mean that no astonishing developments of any kind have occurred. We went out from Carol's barn that day perfectly certain that everything—about Louis, at least—would be changed and strange and upheaved. We lived on a tiptoe of expectation for hours and days, but all has gone on over there just the same as ever. I can't understand it.
That morning, about eleven o'clock, Louis came over to tell us that Monsieur was feeling much better, and that we need no longer worry about him. We all gazed at him curiously,—so curiously, I'm afraid, that he noticed it.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You all act as if you were seeing a spook. Is there anything wrong about me anywhere?"
"Oh, no!" I hurried to assure him. "We were wondering how Monsieur was getting on."
"Well, he's getting on famously," said Louis, "but I certainly did manage to upset him. I was afraid he wouldn't take the news well, but I didn't dream it would be as bad as that. I only supposed he would rant and tear his hair. I'm horribly sorry, for I'm actually getting a bit fond of the old gentleman, queer as he is."
"Did he say anything more to you about it?" asked the Imp.
I knew she couldn't resist asking that. I was crazy to, myself, but couldn't pluck up the courage.
"Not another word," Louis replied. "I expected he'd say a whole dictionary full. He did start off once with a word or two, but evidently changed his mind. He hasn't even hinted at it since."
This seemed a little queer, but we decided (after Louis had gone) that Monsieur was probably putting off the ordeal till he felt stronger. That would be entirely likely. So we told each other that by the next day Louis would probably know the whole strange truth.
But the next day came and went, and Louis was just the same and nothing was changed, even at the end of a week. He told us that Monsieur had never so much as alluded to the subject again, and, for his part, he was mighty glad that the affair had blown over. He said he was sure Monsieur would get used to the notion after a while.
So time has passed, and things remain just as they were. We cannot imagine what has come over Monsieur,—Carol, the Imp, and myself, I mean. Why is he waiting? Why doesn't he tell Louis, as he said would have to? What does all this delay mean?
But if everything remains outwardly the same, it is not so with the way we three feel about things. I don't know if I can explain the strange change that has come over our feelings toward Louis and Monsieur and all that concerns them,—especially toward Louis. All our lives he has been just 'Louis Durant,' the nice boy who lived across the Green, who played with us from the time we were babies and studied with us in the same classes in school, who was just like our brother, except that he didn't live in the same house. We have always thought of him in the same way that we do of Dave. Now, however, everything is different. He isn't 'Louis Durant' any more. He's some strange, unknown, long-way-off person, whose ancestors were monarchs of one of the greatest countries on earth, and who might have been a king himself, if things had gone a little differently. I simply can't feel near to, and well-acquainted with, a person like that. Carol says she can't, either, and the Imp admits that she's felt so a good while longer than we have.
It seems as if our Louis had been taken away forever and a strange, unapproachable person had been put in his place. Not that Louis himself acts any differently. He's exactly the same as ever, of course, and he's said a dozen times in the course of the last week:
"What's come over you girls, anyway? You're all the time gazing at me with eyes as big as dinner-plates, and you act so queerly and are so absent-minded that I don't know you! Has a realization of the fact that I hope some day to be a full-fledged aviator had such a doleful effect on you as all that? You haven't been the same since that day. I wish to goodness that I'd never told you, if you're going to take it in this silly way."
Of course we try to assure him that nothing at all is the matter, but it doesn't work very well.
We three have talked a number of times about whether we ought to breathe a word of what we suspect to Louis, but the Imp says positively, "No." If he is to know, she says, he must learn it from Monsieur and from no other. In fact, by rights she ought not to have let us into the secret, and she wouldn't have done so, except that she thought there would be no reason why she shouldn't after Monsieur had told Louis. Since he apparently hasn't told him anything yet, it is our duty to keep the secret. I guess she must be right. I wouldn't want to be the one to tell Louis, anyway.
Our final exams for this year are coming in a week or so, and we are all "cramming" hard, so I probably won't have a chance to think of much else for some time to come.
June 3, 1914. Everything is just about the same as when I last wrote in this journal. Nothing is changed, as far as we can see, in affairs across the Green. We are all so busy working for and taking our examinations that we haven't had much time to think about it, especially Carol, who is weak in mathematics, and I, who always dread Latin. Only the Imp remains unworried by these troubles. Her studies never did cause her a moment's uneasiness, as far as I can see, though how she gets through them, when she never makes even a pretense of studying, is beyond me.
Monsieur is about again in the usual way, and two or three times Carol and I have had a few moments' conversation with him, while he was strolling on the Green. I simply can't describe the uncanny feeling I have when with him now. If he was a mysterious person before, he's a million times more so now, and every moment that I'm talking to him I find myself in a panic, for fear those eagle eyes of his will bore into my mind and discover the fact that I know his secret. Of course I don't suppose he realizes for a moment what he said that day he was taken so ill, and certainly he does not dream that the Imp was keen enough to unearth what she did. He is polite and courteous and stilted—and very French—in his manner toward us, and I suppose he no more dreams that we know what we do than he supposes that the sky will fall on him.
One thing is beginning to disturb me very much. It's a suspicion that occurred to the Imp, and that she confided to us a day or two ago. She rather startled Carol and me by suddenly putting this question to us:
"What do you figure out that Monsieur's plans are?"
"How on earth should we know?" said I.
"Well, you must admit that he probably has some, or he wouldn't be dangling around here so long," replied the Imp. "Why shouldn't he tell Louis what he has to tell, and then go away or take Louis away, as the case may be?"
"What do you think, Bobs?" asked Carol. "I'll warrant you have worked it all out."
"If I tell you what I think, you'll tell me I'm a lunatic," declared the Imp. "It does sound rather crazy, and yet why shouldn't it be so?"
"Why shouldn't what be so?" I cried. "You haven't even told us yet."
"Well, here's my notion," she said. "Suppose—well, just suppose that somebody wanted to overthrow the present government of France. Wouldn't this be a lovely chance?"
We were struck dumb with amazement by this astounding proposition.
"I guess you are a lunatic!" I said. "But even lunatics ought to have a chance to explain themselves. Go on."
"Oh, I know it sounds foolish," returned the Imp, "but, after all, is it any more foolish than the possibility that our Louis may be a descendant of a king of France? Just think what that means. Suppose there are a lot of discontented descendants of royalists in France, who are dissatisfied with the present form of government. And suppose that they hear there is a direct descendant of Louis XVI now living. Wouldn't it be a lovely chance to get up a secret insurrection in his favor and so restore him to the throne? It wouldn't be the first time that a republic has been overthrown in that country, if you remember. And if this Monsieur happens to be a Bourbon relation, he'd be all the more interested."
Just then Carol gave a gasp, and cried out:
"Yes, and do you remember the way that first cablegram commenced? 'Time almost ripe'! I always did think that was queer."
"Exactly what I said," continued the Imp. "And what do you suppose Monsieur is twiddling his thumbs around Paradise Green for? Just because Louis isn't falling in with his plans as nicely as he'd hoped. I'll warrant Monsieur has been horribly disappointed from the first, because Louis was so thoroughly American and didn't take a scrap of interest in his French affairs. He sees plainly that Louis isn't going to be easy to handle. And if Louis won't stand for this restoration business, then 'the fat's in the fire.' That's what's bothering Monsieur. And he's waiting around to see if he can't win Louis over unconsciously somehow. At least, that's how I've figured it out."
We couldn't help but agree with her, and wondered that we'd never thought of it by ourselves. Besides, the more we thought of it, the more we remembered dozens of little incidents that seem to confirm it. If we all weren't so busy pegging away at our exams, and so had more time to think about this, I feel sure that we could come to some definite conclusion about it, but as matters stand, I, for one, am too bewildered to know what to think.
And Louis goes about as happy as a lark, unconscious of it all!
June 29, 1914. Examinations are over at last, and I'm thankful to say that we all passed, except that Carol has a "condition" in mathematics that she'll have to make up during the summer. Anyhow, it's over, and we can breathe more freely and look forward to vacation.
Last evening after tea the Imp asked Carol and myself to go for a walk with her, as she had something important she wanted to tell us. We suspected that she'd thought out something else about Louis, so we went quite willingly. Otherwise, I'm bound to confess, we'd have been bored stiff with the prospect of spending our time with her. It was quite true. She had thought of something new.
"Girls," she began, "has it occurred to you that if what we suspect about Monsieur and Louis is true, it's a very serious affair?"
We said we supposed so, but that we didn't see how we could help it.
"That's just it," she answered. "We ought to help it, somehow. I told you once that this was a matter that might affect the world, and you can easily see now that it is. Ought we to simply sit down and let it slide gaily along?"
"But what on earth can we do about it?" I demanded. "Just remember that we're nothing but three young girls, one not even out of public school, and that not a soul on earth would believe us if we were to make such fools of ourselves as to tell what, after all, we only suspect."
"History has sometimes been in the hands of as young people as ourselves," she remarked. I'm sure I don't know where the Imp gets all her information, and yet somehow I'm bound to believe her. I couldn't think of a single case where history had been in the hands of any one of our age, but I didn't dare say so, because she would probably have promptly pointed out half a dozen cases. So I said nothing.
"I haven't made up my mind what we ought to do," she went on, "but I'm sure something must be done, and pretty soon, too!"
"Suppose we begin by telling Father," I suggested. "He has a pretty level head about most things."
"Pooh!" she scoffed. "He'd just laugh his head off at us, and tell us to run away and play and forget all about it. You know Father doesn't take much stock in anything that isn't agriculture." This was quite true, and we saw at once that the Imp had the right of it.
"No, don't speak to any one yet," she added. "We'll keep the secret a while longer, till I've thought out a better plan."
This morning another queer thing happened. As there was no school, we were all sitting on the veranda discussing the startling news in the paper, the assassination of the Archduke of Austria, which happened yesterday. Just then Louis came over to ask us to go out in the launch.
"What do you think of the news?" he asked.
We said it was awful, and that we were wondering what would happen next.
"You ought to have seen Monsieur when he read it," went on Louis, laughing at the recollection. "He got up, crumpled the paper into a ball, and stormed about the place as if he were having a fit. I asked him why he was so excited about it, and he immediately began to reel off a lot about the 'balance of power' in Europe,—how it would be upset and what Austria would be likely to do, where Russia would object and how France might be affected, and a whole lot more that I couldn't begin to understand. He's a great student of international politics, he says, and this news seemed to upset him a lot. I'm sure I can't see why."
The Imp poked me so hard in the ribs that I almost shrieked aloud, but I saw at once what she must be thinking. Are Monsieur's plans upset by this, I wonder? Or are we just imagining trouble where there is none? I'm sure I don't know. But of one thing I'm certain. I never realized how strange it would feel to go off for a picnic up the river in a launch run by a boy in a pair of paint bespattered overalls, whose ancestors sat on the throne of France and who might, in his turn, become the future ruler of that country.
Anyhow, I don't like it. I'm not happy, and I wish things were just as they used to be. So does Carol, but I'm afraid the Imp enjoys all the excitement.