CHAPTER XIX One path there is, one only door Of refuge from the blank Before, And urge with reasons not a few Regret and Gratitude thereto. The Castle of Salvières, with its gorgeous “presence flag” fluttering in the salt sea-breeze, basked in the brilliant sun of a hot afternoon. On the south terrace Piotr was rushing after a huge pink-and-green ball that Marguerite was untiringly throwing for him. Below, on the to-day unwrinkled surface of the little harbor, the _Sarcelle_, one of the finest steam-yachts afloat, was being spruced and polished and scraped and rubbed--like a steeple-chaser before a race--for her straight flight across the ocean. Even from that height the cheery lilt of a bo’s’n’s silver pipe could be distinctly heard as it blew its shrill commands, and the almond-white decks shone bravely after their last holystoning. “Where’s she going?” Master Piotr asked, running up with the gaily painted globe in his arms. “Garrassime and I were down there this morning, little darling Malou, and the steward said that Uncle Jean had ordered her to be ready by to-morrow. Is she going to England?” “I don’t know,” Marguerite quite truthfully answered, for ever since the wreck she had asked no questions, dreading to probe into a situation which she realized was quite beyond her. “Ho, ho!” cried Piotr, spying a tall, black-robed figure emerging from the Louis XI. wing by a postern-door all overrun with creepers. “Where have you been, Uncle Pierre? You’re always fussing on that side of the quadrangle. Have you a surprise hidden there for me?” The Abbé de Kerdren received the flushed, laughing boy full against his long legs without a reproof; then bending, he lifted him to his left arm. “You are always so unexpected, Piotr,” he remarked. “Your rubber ball would be no worse as far as bounce is concerned, but decidedly lighter.” “You haven’t answered my question, Uncle Pierre?” grumbled Piotr, snatching at the abbé’s long sash as if it had been a bell-rope. “Answer me, please!” “Indeed, Majesty! Well, as you have condescended to say ‘please,’ I will confide to you that there is not the least bit of a surprise in store for you, neither in the _Louis-Onze_ wing nor anywhere else.” “_Tfou!_” came from Piotr in an admirable imitation of the _mujik’s_ favorite expression of disapproval. “_Tfou!_ I don’t think you’re telling the truth, Uncle Pierre, because I know there’s going to be a surprise pretty soon.” “You’re not very polite, my Muscovite friend. And, by the way, what makes you think that there will be a surprise, after all? You seem pretty sure about it!” Marguerite had drawn near and had swung herself to the parapet of the terrace, from which she dangled her little feet half a yard from the ground. She was barely listening, but still she heard, and Piotr’s next remark caused her to suddenly catch hold of the stonework on both sides as if in need of steadying herself.