"Your mother is at liberty to go home, and your father wishes her to do so, and to take you; but she says she will not leave him. One can understand her feeling, and yet it is a pity. In England she would be safer and better off. But you know how unhappy she always is, if she is away from your father even for a few days. You, of course, will have to be sent home soon, so as to go on with your schooling; but at first you will join us at Fontainebleau. We hope to be all released in a very little while. The thing is so disgraceful, that Napoleon can hardly persevere in it--so most people say. But we shall soon see. If we are not soon set free, your father will no doubt try to persuade your mother to take you home." "Where is Fontainebleau?" "Some distance from Paris. Don't you know the name? Your father and mother are there already, and now I have to go too. I have only been allowed to wait for a few days, because of your illness, and I must not put off any longer." "Are you going soon? Will you take me?" "Not just yet, my boy. You are hardly fit for the journey. A chill might lay you by again; besides, other people might catch the small-pox from you. So I have settled to leave you here a little longer, in charge of kind Mademoiselle de St. Roques. She and Monsieur and Madame de Bertrand will see well after you." Roy looked very doleful. "When are you going?" "I am afraid--to-morrow. But for that I would not have told you quite so soon. But you will keep up a brave heart. You are a soldier's son, you know, so you mustn't give in." Roy's face worked. "I don't want you to go," he said. "That horrid old beast of a Napoleon; I wish somebody or other would guillotine him--that I do! He deserves it richly! Must you go?" "I'm afraid I have no choice. The gendarmes have been looking me up; and if I put off any longer I shall get into trouble with those gentlemen. I'm bound to report myself at Fontainebleau before the evening of the day after to-morrow. But you will soon come after me. Why--Roy!" "I can't help it. It's so horrid," sobbed Roy, direfully ashamed of himself. "I--don't like you to go. I don't like you and papa to be prisoners. And oh--poor little Molly! What will she do! Den, why does God let such wicked men be in the world? I wouldn't. I'd kill them right off." "One can't always see the reason. Some good reason there must be." "I don't know how there can be! It's all as horrid as horrid, and everything is miserable!" The boy rubbed his coat-sleeve across his eyes, only to burst out sobbing afresh. "I can't help it," he gasped. "Oh, please don't ever tell Molly."