“You are a foolish girl, Proté. Have you not raged to me and to Monsieur Lisle because I was not invited? You even spoke to Le Pont. I heard you say to her, 'They must have been selfish indeed to have so forgotten the Little Mademoiselle!’” While Marie Josephine was speaking, Proté was putting on her little silken undergarments, fastening the tapes which tied them with nervous fingers. Then she slipped a light silk frock over her head and put a blue cape about her shoulders. “Come, Mesdemoiselles, I will escort you to Gonfleur. I shall be waiting for you at the garden door when the clock strikes ten, Little Mademoiselle. You must be in bed and asleep before Madame la Comtesse and the others return,” admonished Proté. They had come out to the upper landing and they stood for a moment looking down into the great hall below. A man servant in red and white livery was passing through the hall. He stooped and extinguished the candles, until at last only a tall one in a high, golden candlestick on a marble table near the door was left burning. “We must go down the other way. It would not do for the servants to know. One cannot be too careful in these bad times,” whispered Proté as they walked down a long hall, lit dimly by flaring candles in bronze sockets. There was a light patter of steps behind them and turning they saw that Flambeau was following them. Proté shook her stubby finger at him, whispering in a hissing sort of way that made her voice sound almost like a whistle in the gusty corridor. “Ah, the bad dog! You are to go back at once to Mademoiselle’s room. You are not to follow!” Marie Josephine and Rosanne giggled, and Flambeau came forward slowly, in spite of Proté’s upraised hand and threatening looks. “You know that he will come, as he goes everywhere with us. There is no use to urge him to go back.” Rosanne pulled impatiently at Proté’s arm as she spoke. The little maid only raised her hands as though in despair, and the four of them started to descend the steep flight of stairs. The two girls were both laughing softly with excitement, holding each other’s hands and looking back at Flambeau. Marie Josephine knew this staircase well, but she said nothing. No one must know that she had ever been down these stairs before, because they were a part of grandfather’s secret. An old man was waiting for them at the door leading into the garden. It was Gonfleur, the servant who had come with Rosanne. He held a lighted lanthorn in one hand and when he saw Proté and the children, he started to shuffle slowly along the path ahead of them, holding the lanthorn carefully so that they could see their way. “We are both fools, you an old one and I a young one, Gonfleur. See that you return with Mademoiselle Marie Josephine at ten exactly, or it will be the worse for you!” Proté called after him in her funny, hissing way.