A gleam of hope passed over the Comte de Flavigny's grave face, and died away as he said dolefully, "I do not see how Elspeth could find it, and perhaps the old ladies would not let her in. And . . . and . . . where _is_ Elspeth?" "I am sure that she is quite safe," answered La Vireville in a consoling tone. "She will be in London, you may be certain, before we are. . . . My child, what _is_ the matter?" For Anne-Hilarion, overtaken by a sudden whirlwind of sobs, had buried his head in the corner of the chaise. (2) It was the inevitable breakdown come at last. Had La Vireville reflected a moment, he need not have been so startled; rather would he have felt surprise that it had not happened earlier. For a child of Anne-Hilarion's tender years to have been through so much without the occurrence of something of the sort would have been phenomenal, had his companion paused to think of it. But the little boy was so sedate in his ways that he gave the impression of being older than he was, and La Vireville was not experienced as a nurse. However, some explanation of this seizure did dawn upon him after a moment. "My poor little rabbit!" he exclaimed, putting his arm round him. "There, don't cry so--it is all right! You will soon see Elspeth again; and meanwhile, here is your uncle to look after you." But the little rabbit did not, apparently, want even his adoptive uncle. He burrowed yet farther into the cushions of the carriage, his whole body convulsed with weeping. Fragmentary ejaculations of "Papa! Papa!" mingled with appeals for his grandfather and for Elspeth emerged from his sobs, which now started to partake of the character of screams. His grief was getting beyond his control, and La Vireville began to be alarmed. Not only did he think that such abandonment of distress must be bad for the child, to whose nature it seemed so foreign, but it also occurred to him that a passer-by, or even possibly the postilion, hearing such testimony of affliction, and becoming curious as to what was going forward in the chaise, might institute an investigation which could hardly fail of being disastrous. Anne in this state would certainly give the impression that he was being kidnapped--by his rescuer. The émigré pulled up the window nearest to him, which was open, and redoubled his efforts to quiet the boy. "I want to go home!" screamed Anne. "I want Papa! I want Papa! I want my goldfish!" He beat with his fists against the dingy cushions, and even repulsed his dear Chevalier's attempts at consolation. Fortuné hardly knew him for the same child. And meanwhile they were slowing down at the entrance to Villers-Bocage, a small place which would not have called for this attention but for the fact that the whole infant population appeared to be at play upon the road, thereby causing their pace to slacken.