Gonfleur made no reply and, holding open the heavy garden door, let his two charges through and then followed them. They found themselves on the walk outside, the sultry dampness of an August night all about them. The roar of the city could be heard in the distance and from the corner came the sound of rough laughter and harsh voices. They turned away in the opposite direction from the voices and, as it was only a very little way to the iron door leading to the back entrance to the De Soigné mansion, they found themselves shut away from the street soon again, almost before they knew it. It had been exciting to them both, that little walk through the night. Neither of them had ever been out this way before. Marie Josephine had never seen the city after sundown but once, and that was when, because of some trouble with their horses, they had been delayed in coming back from Pigeon Valley, where they spent their summers, and their coach had not entered Paris until evening. That had been the summer before. When once they were inside the little door leading to the vast back quarters of the great mansion, there was no longer any need of Gonfleur’s lanthorn to light them, for all the way up the winding stairs were flaring torches. At the foot of the stairs the old servant bowed and left them. Rosanne called after him. “You are not to forget to come with the sweets, Gonfleur!” “I will remember, of a surety, Mademoiselle.” They were so far from the region of the bal masqué that only the faintest sound of music came to them. Rosanne took her friend’s hand and they climbed up the steep stairs side by side. Marie Josephine knew where they were going or at least she guessed. It was the place above all others where she liked best to play. It was a little square balcony in the wall at the very tiptop of the house and one could reach it by this back flight of stairs. The two children had discovered it some years ago and, on the rare occasions when they were left to themselves, they had climbed up to it and looked down into the vastness of the great hall below. The music of a minuet was being played as the two settled themselves in a corner of the balcony and looked down. The minuet music was very pretty, and the sight upon which they gazed was pretty, too. “It is like maman’s picture of which she is so fond—the picture where all the people are dancing. It is by Monsieur Watteau. Grandfather told me so,” whispered Marie Josephine. “There is no need at all for whispering,” Rosanne answered in natural tones. “No one could hear us if we were to shout ever so loud!” They sat close together because they felt a little cold. Drifts of chill air came in from behind them. It seemed as though even in mid-summer there was always a breath of dampness at the De Soignés’.