“I mean that Georges would rather be where he can talk with people in the streets and make trouble,” Lisle answered, but he looked almost as puzzled as his sister. He was fifteen and the head of his house, but he had never been taught to think things out for himself. He had hardly ever been alone in all his life, for when he rode or walked a tutor had always been with him. He had fenced and danced and shot, had studied about the old kings and the exploits of his own ancestors, but, like Marie Josephine, he only vaguely understood what really was going on in Paris. “I want to go to Pigeon Valley, Lisle. I don’t like the sounds at night,” Marie Josephine said. She wanted to ask about the blue velvet and ermine and the crown but she could not make up her mind to do it. Lisle pulled her cherry-colored rosette. He had come back because he had teased her. She knew this and she suddenly put her head down on his arm. “I wish I could go to the bal masqué, Lisle. It’s going to be so wonderful,” she whispered. “It is silly nonsense; that’s what it is! Madame de Soigné is giving the party for Cécile and Bertran. The fat Bertran needs a good caning instead of a bal masqué. He knows I know he cheated at fencing last week. It is a foolish time to have a soirée when everything in the city is upside down!” Lisle answered her. “Maman said to Le Pont, 'There is no longer any pleasure for us now that the king and queen are in such danger, but let the children enjoy themselves while they may.’ I did not overhear her. She said it before us all here in the schoolroom.” “Yes, maman fears always for the queen. Well, I must be off. Monsieur Laurent is waiting.” He lifted Marie Josephine’s chin and looked at her. “You are an odd little mortal. You are like grandfather.” Then he crossed the room and, looking back at her from the doorway, said: “I’ll tell you all about the silly party after it is over.” “The same night—as soon as you come home, no matter how late it is?” she called across the room excitedly. Lisle nodded. It was a long room and she looked such a little figure sitting there on the broad window sill. He was right. She was like their grandfather. She listened until his footsteps had died away. Proté was in the housekeeper’s room having a good gossip. She and Flambeau were alone.