"These, at least, are real birds!" the child cried gleefully, and kissed each one as it was put into the cage. "I shall try to tame them!" From that time he had always a pleasing occupation with his feathered captives. He fed them, cleaned the cage, and clapped his hands with delight when they all started to sing, accompanying the toy one in his tune of the "King's March." One little fellow seemed tamer than the rest, never failed to come when the boy chirped to it, and even perched fearlessly on his shoulder. This one he called "La Petite," and had tied a tiny pink ribbon around its leg. But the birds were rather quiet just now, hopping about and twittering softly. Suddenly in the silence of the room there sounded the rasping of bolts undrawn, the clanking of chains and the hoarse command of the sentries. The door queued. The boy's heart almost stood still in the intensity of his expectation. Would she come? Was Yvonne just beyond the door? With a stifled cry of joy he recognised the sound of her voice, and knew that his desire was to be fulfilled. When she entered he thought she looked grave, and not nearly so buoyant as was her wont. Poor Yvonne! At that very moment she was sick with fear for Jean's yet unknown fate. Wishing to rid herself at once of the packet, and deeming Simon's absence the most favourable moment, she thrust it into his hand under the table. "From your mother! Hide it quickly!" she whispered. Watching Barelle and Madame Simon who were talking together, he slipped to his bed, and shoved the packet into a small hole in the mattress, returning noiselessly to Yvonne. Then he said aloud: "I have something for you, Yvonne. It is not much, but I wish you to take and enjoy it!" And he handed her a small, shrivelled pear. Little Yvonne was sincerely touched by this gift. She knew how small an amount the poor child got to eat, and she could not bear to deprive him of even this miserable little piece of fruit. "Oh, I ought not take it!" she said. "You need it more than I!" But Louis Charles eagerly pressed her to accept, and even Madame Simon turned to intervene: "Take it! take it, little girl! The little fellow has been saving it for a week to give to you. He will be sorely grieved if you refuse!" With tears in her eyes, Yvonne accepted the pitiful gift. "And now show me your birds! How pretty they are!" she said. But the boy had a question to ask. "My mother! How is she?" he whispered. Poor little fellow! He did not dream that his mother, long since removed from the Tower, had so recently gone to her eternal repose. Even the cruel-hearted cobbler had spared him that blow, and Yvonne would sooner have had her tongue cut out than be the one to impart such news. So she only smiled and pointed to the ceiling. And Louis Charles, reassured, turned to show her his birds.