Children and war -- Juvenile fiction; France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Juvenile fiction
“The moon’s up and it’s time to start. No more of this good-by business,
or it’ll be good-by for good,” he said, as they all stood at the cottage
door, the pine-filled air from the forest blowing about them.
Grigge spoke to his aunt.
“You’d best go to the hut and stay if there’s trouble. You’ll be safe
enough there,” he said, and he did not sneer as was his wont. There was
a dignity about him that none of them had seen before. He was risking
his life for people whom he despised, and he was doing it for the sake
of a friend. Perhaps, sometime, he would do the like for sheer love of
his brother man. At any rate, he had taken the first step in that
direction.
They were off at last, all of them in the great roomy coach, Bertran and
Grigge sitting beside the driver. The horses, after a good rest and
feed, went like the wind itself! It seemed as though they knew that
danger lay behind!
The girls and the governess were tired and bewildered and heartsick.
They could think of nothing but Marie Josephine. Finally, after they had
thought and said all that they could about the runaways, Denise
remarked:
“It’s so wonderful to think they dared to go to Paris. The road is
direct enough and Marie Josephine knows it well by coach, but little
Jean knows nothing.”
“I teased him once because he had never been anywhere, and he said some
day he was going to visit his cousins near Melon,” said Bertran.
The driver turned and looked at him. “Melon—let me see—Melon. Why, I
took in two children the other day. They seemed dead beat out, and slept
all day in the back of the coach. The boy told me, in the evening, that
he had cousins near Melon!”
The exclamations and the questions were so numerous that Champar was
sorry he had spoken.
“Stop and tell us at once. We must know about the children going to
Melon,” they begged, but he paid not the slightest attention to their
entreaties and only urged the horses to go faster. He intended driving
all night, and it was not until he stopped to rest the horses before
they took a hill, that he spoke again at all.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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