I must tell you first of all that a troop of soldiers, about a hundred, had arrived during the day. The officer in command, a big red-headed fellow, had shown us a paper, an order to billet them. They had taken up their quarters in the chapel, and had passed the day there, eating, drinking, singing, and playing cards. They made a dreadful din. They all calmed down when evening came, and were all sleeping in groups. You will understand, little one, that it was not very reassuring for three lone women to be near such people. Madame Maréchal's husband was away, Madame Badouillet was a widow, and I an orphan; so we bolted ourselves in the little room on the ground floor which was situated between the high road and the chapel, and that's where we were when the knock came, as I have just told you. Madame Badouillet woke up with a jump, and we all three looked straight at each other with frightened eyes. A moment passed and there was another knock--louder this time. We had a good mind to sham deafness, as you may imagine, but joking was dangerous in those days. If you refused hospitality to patriots, you were regarded as a "suspect," as they called it, and then--the guillotine! It was all over with you in no time. Madame Maréchal began to recite her prayers; Madame Badouillet shook in every limb; besides, I was the youngest, so I ought to open the door. I found some men at the door, with large hats, making quite a black group on the road-way. They looked harassed, and their boots were covered with dust. My first impulse was to shut the door in their faces, but one of them made a step forward, stretched out his hand, and said in a low, shaking voice:-- "Shelter, citoyenne, give us shelter for the night. We are dropping with fatigue--have pity upon us!" And these last words were repeated in a murmur by the group of men. "Who are you?" "Fugitives--deputies of the Gironde--we are pursued, save us!" They were Girondins! You will know one day, my child, what that meant. It is enough now for you to know that they were poor fellows flying from Paris, pursued by the Montagnards, that is, by their enemies. "Wretched men," I replied, "go away! The chapel is full of soldiers. If you come in you are lost!" They hesitated a moment; then a pale young man, quite a youth, who was leaning upon the arms of two of his comrades, murmured feebly: "Walk again! I cannot go a step farther. Go on, comrades; save yourselves and leave me here. I prefer to die!" They were brave fellows, those Girondins. They would not hear of abandoning the poor young fellow. "Is there no other place but the chapel where we could rest for two hours--just for two hours only?" asked the one who had already spoken to me. "None but this room," I answered, standing a little aside; "and the chapel has no way out but that door (I pointed to the middle door), so the soldiers pass through here to enter or go out. Let them see you, and you are lost!"