"Madame, I have been his man in lean times and in fat--in famine and in full harvest. He saved my life at Cerisolles, and it was I who got him out of the Bastille; I have been by his side from the time he was a simple gentleman to the present day, when Monsieur is a marshal and a peer of France. You ask if I would do anything for Monsieur. If Monsieur le Vicomte were to ask me to lay down my life to-morrow I would do so willingly." "I believe you, Lalande. Now listen. Madame de Lorgnac here is in great danger. It is Monsieur le Vicomte's wish that she should be conveyed to the Convent of Our Lady of Meymac, and we trust her to you. No one is to know where she is placed. You must protect her with your life--do you understand? And you must start now--and alone--for Madame's hiding-place is a secret." "We could start in a few minutes, madame, and I will do what you say." "Then be ready in half an hour." "Madame," and he was gone. "Do not let Mousette know whither you are bound, Denise. She is a chattering ape, and, though she loves you, can never keep a secret. As for de Termes, I will arrange to manage him--and, dear, keep a brave heart. I would go with you myself; but you know it is impossible." * * * * * The moon was just rising when, after taking an affectionate farewell of Madame de Termes, who had been to me as a mother, we started--Mousette, Lalande, and myself. Our horses had been brought to a little gate at the back of the straggling garden attached to the inn, by the equerry himself, so that we might get away unobserved. Hither Madame accompanied us, and after giving some further instructions in a low tone to Lalande, embraced me again and again, and I am afraid we both wept, whilst Mousette joined in to keep us company. Finally we started, and I turned once or twice to look back, and saw the slender grey-clad figure still at the gate, growing fainter and fainter in outline at each step we took, and seeming at last to slip away into the silver haze of the moonlight, until when I turned for the last time, I could see nothing but the winding road, the ghostly outline of the trees, and the pointed roof of the inn. I have often wondered if the girls of the present day would endure and act as we women had to do then. All women have to endure passively. This will be so for all time unless the world be made anew, but with us there were times and seasons when we had to act like men. Last year, when I was in Paris, where I had taken my daughter for her presentation, a great lady called on me, the wife and daughter of a soldier, and she reached our house almost in hysterics, because one of the wheels of her coach had come off, and she had to walk a hundred paces or so. She was in fear of her life at the accident. And when we had made much of her and she was gone, my husband's eyes met mine, and the same thought struck us both, for he came up and kissed me, saying: