“I’ll never tell, never, never, never,” he assured her. She went over to the door, opened it, and looked out to make sure that no one was coming. A shriek from above the door made her jump, but it was only Pince Nez the crow. Marie Josephine walked over to the fire and poked one of the logs with her little bronze shoe. There was some snow on the shoe and it fell into the logs with a sizzling sound. “It is like this, Jean,” she said. “I’ve thought about it so many times, lying awake at night, and even when sitting with the others around the drawing-room fire after our supper, while Hortense and Le Pont worked over their tapestries and Cécile read aloud. Oh, Jean, I was only thirteen last week, but I feel older than any of them now. It makes me so sad when I see Le Pont doing the tapestry lilies on the screen that she has been working on for four years in the summers at Les Vignes, and remember how different it all was when she began it.” Marie Josephine choked back a sob. “Yes, but tell me what it is that you are thinking about,” insisted Jean, as Pince Nez lighted suddenly on his shoulder and gave his ear a friendly little peck. “You are thinking of Madame your mother and of Monsieur Lisle, is it not so?” As he said this, he came over to the fire and stood beside her, frowning. “I do not know whether to tell you or not——” Marie Josephine began, but she was interrupted by Jean’s angry words: “You are going to say again that I am a baby and I will not bear it. Did I not fight my cousin Grigge for the sake of you all, this very day?” Jean gulped down a sob and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his black smock. Marie Josephine patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You were splendid, a real friend. I was proud of you. Yes, I am going to tell you. I have a plan which I must carry out.” She sat down on the settle, holding the sides of her cape with both hands, and looked across at him. “When the spring comes, Jean,” she went on, “I am going to”—her voice sank to a whisper—“Paris.” Jean’s face went blank with astonishment. “You do not mean it! Why you would never be allowed, never in the world. They would never let you go!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be stupid, Jean. They will know nothing about it. It is a secret.” “It is not safe to go! You could not do it! You are only a little girl. It would be bad enough for me, who am a boy.” Jean enjoyed saying this very much and he felt suddenly the older and more experienced of the two. He had felt so ever since his fight with Grigge in the morning. “I tell you that I will go. You cannot understand, for I can tell you only a little of why I am going,” she answered, frowning at him with her straight, black eyebrows which were so like the old comte’s. “It is not safe to go. The peddler, who told us of the king’s death, said it was not safe. He said to go to Paris was to endanger one’s life!” protested Jean, his eyes growing bigger and bigger with excitement.