They had nearly finished it when Jean came in, his gun on his arm, to say that Firmin had harnessed the horse to the luggage-cart, and it was awaiting them at the door of the château. “Send him in to me, and stand by the horse till we come out,” said the millionaire. Firmin came clumping in. The millionaire gazed at him solemnly, and said: “Firmin, I am relying on you. I am leaving you in a position of honour and danger—a position which an old soldier of France loves.” Firmin did his best to look like an old soldier of France. He pulled himself up out of the slouch which long years of loafing through woods with a gun on his arm had given him. He lacked also the old soldier of France’s fiery gaze. His eyes were lack-lustre. “I look for anything, Firmin—burglary, violence, an armed assault,” said the millionaire. “Don’t be afraid, sir. I saw the war of ’70,” said Firmin boldly, rising to the occasion. “Good!” said the millionaire. “I confide the château to you. I trust you with my treasures.” He rose, and saying “Come along, we must be getting to the station,” he led the way to the door of the château. The luggage-cart stood rather high, and they had to bring a chair out of the hall to enable the girls to climb into it. Germaine did not forget to give her real opinion of the advantages of a seat formed by a plank resting on the sides of the cart. The millionaire climbed heavily up in front, and took the reins. “Never again will I trust only to motor-cars. The first thing I’ll do after I’ve made sure that my collections are safe will be to buy carriages—something roomy,” he said gloomily, as he realized the discomfort of his seat. He turned to Jean and Firmin, who stood on the steps of the château watching the departure of their master, and said: “Sons of France, be brave—be brave!” The cart bumped off into the damp, dark night. Jean and Firmin watched it disappear into the darkness. Then they came into the château and shut the door. Firmin looked at Jean, and said gloomily: “I don’t like this. These burglars stick at nothing. They’d as soon cut your throat as look at you.” “It can’t be helped,” said Jean. “Besides, you’ve got the post of honour. You guard the hall. I’m to look after the drawing-rooms. They’re not likely to break in through the drawing-rooms. And I shall lock the door between them and the hall.” “No, no; you won’t lock that door!” cried Firmin. “But I certainly will,” said Jean. “You’d better come and get a gun.” They went to the gun-room, Firmin still protesting against the locking of the door between the drawing-rooms and the hall. He chose his gun; and they went into the kitchen. Jean took two bottles of wine, a rich-looking pie, a sweet, and carried them to the drawing-room. He came back into the hall, gathered together an armful of papers and magazines, and went back to the drawing-room. Firmin kept trotting after him, like a little dog with a somewhat heavy footfall.