"I think not!" she replied, putting her hand in his. And they climbed the gloomy, guarded stairs together. At the door of the room on the second floor Barelle gave a command to the sentry, the clanking bolts and chains were drawn, the door opened, and they stood in the presence of Louis XVII of France! Yvonne could scarcely believe her eyes! Had she not known whom she was going to see, she would never have recognised him. Remembering the beautiful boy in the Tuileries garden, the laughing, dimpled face, the long curls of golden-brown, the round graceful limbs, the sweet trusting blue eyes, she shrank back and drew in her breath with almost a sob. On a chair in a corner sat the unhappy monarch. His little body, grown thin and wasted by captivity and ill-treatment, was clad in a startling red suit. On his shorn, jagged hair rested a liberty-cap. His cheeks were sunken and pale, and his eyes red with weeping. Over him towered the burly form of the cobbler. [Illustration] "Sing that song about the 'Austrian Wolf,' you wretched little cub, or I'll throttle you!" he threatened. "I will never sing such a thing about my mother, if you should beat me to death!" answered the child, quietly but firmly. Simon put out his great, hairy hand to grasp the boy's collar. "There, there, Simon!" interposed Barelle. "Leave off your instructions for a while, and have a game of billiards with me. See, I've brought this little youngster to play with the boy, and give you some freedom! You don't have much leisure time now." Simon, exceedingly flattered by what he deemed Barelle's thoughtfulness for him, acquiesced at once. The two men went to a billiard-table at the other end of the room, leaving the children together. "You're right about my time!" grumbled the cobbler as they chalked their cues. "I don't have a moment to myself. I'm tied to that cub every minute of the day, and I'm just as much a prisoner as he is. I tell you I can't stand it very long! It's bad for my health! It's driving me crazy! Why, look you! I could not go to Marat's funeral, and I even missed the great anniversary fête in the Champ de Mars on August tenth! I'm tired of it!" But how fared it with Yvonne and the little king? For a moment after Simon left him, the child remained motionless, his head sunk on his breast, sobs only half under control heaving his chest. Then he raised his head and looked at Yvonne. He gave a great start of recognition and delight, and would have uttered a glad cry, had not Yvonne laid her finger on her lips, glanced at the two men, and shaken her head. The boy understood the action. His adversity had taught him only too well, the necessity for caution. Yvonne boldly took the initiative. Stepping up to him, and speaking so that she could be heard by the cobbler, she said: