Barbara in Brittany

by E. A. Gillie

"Barbara was reading a guide book on Brittany."

"You may think it a little unkind, Barbara," she began, "that I am not coming with you to see what kind of place it is to which you are going, but I think it is good for a girl to learn to be independent and self-reliant. I made careful inquiries, and the people seem to be very good at teaching French—they used to live in Paris—and they are quite respectable. Of course, you may not find everything just as you like it, and if it is really unpleasant, you can write me, and I shall arrange for you to return here. But Paris would be more distracting for you to live in, and in a week or two far too hot to be pleasant.

"Besides, I should like you really to study the language, so that you may profit by your stay in France, as well as enjoy it. If I stayed with you you would never talk French all the time." She stopped a moment, and took a stitch or two in her knitting, then added in a tone quite different from her usual quick, precise way, "Your father was a splendidly straight, strong man—in body and mind. Try to be like him in every way. He would have wished his eldest daughter to be sensible and courageous."

Barbara flushed with pleasure at the praise of her father. She had never heard her aunt mention him before, and she leaned forward eagerly, "Thank you, Aunt Anne—I want to be like him."

She would gladly have kissed her, but the family habit of reserve was strong upon her.

"Let me see," continued her aunt, "can you ride?"

Barbara laughed.

"I used to ride Topsy—the Shetland, you know—long ago, but father sold him."

Her eyes followed her aunt's across the garden and the end of the street, to the distant glimpse of the Bois de Boulogne, where riders passed at frequent intervals, and her eyes glowed. "Doesn't it look jolly?" she said. "I used to love it."

Aunt Anne nodded.

"I used to ride in my youth, and your father rode beautifully before he was married, and when he could afford to keep a horse. He would like you to have done so too, I think. If there is any place where you can learn in St. Servan, you may. It will be a good change from your studies."

"Oh, aunt!" and this time reserve was thrown to the winds, and Barbara most heartily embraced her. "Oh, how perfectly splendid of you! It has always been my dream to ride properly, but I never, never thought it would come true."

"Dreams do not often," Miss Britton returned, with a scarcely audible sigh; then she gathered up her soft white wool. "There is the first bell, child, and we have not changed for dinner. Come, be quick."

The next morning a heavily-laden cab passed from the Rue St. Sulpice through the gates into the city. Miss Britton, finding that a friend of the Belvoirs was going almost the whole way to St. Servan, had arranged for Barbara to go under her care. But it was with very regretful eyes that the girl watched the train, bearing her aunt away, leave the station, and she was rather a silent traveller when, later in the morning, she was herself en route for St. Servan.

Not so her companion, however, a most talkative personage, who was hardly quiet five minutes consecutively. She poured forth all sorts of confidences about her family and friends, and seemed quite satisfied if Barbara merely nodded and murmured, "Comme c'est interessant!" though she did not understand nearly all her companion said. The latter pointed out places of interest in passing, and finally, with an effusive good-bye, got out at the station before St. Servan.

As the train neared its destination, Barbara looked anxiously to see what the town was like, and her disappointment was great at the first glimpse of the place. When the family had looked up the Encyclopaedia for a description of St. Servan, it seemed to be that of a small, old-fashioned place, and Barbara had pictured it little more than a village with a picturesque beach. Instead of that, she saw many houses, some tall chimneys, and quays with ships lying alongside. It would have cheered her had she known that the station was really a considerable distance from the town, and in the ugliest part of it; but that she did not find out till later.

Outside the station were many vociferous cab-drivers offering to take her anywhere she liked, and, choosing the one whose horse seemed best cared for, she inquired if he knew where the house of Mademoiselle Loiré, Rue Calvados, was. Grinning broadly he bade her step in, and presently they were rolling and bumping along rough cobble-stoned streets. Barbara had further imagined, from the description of the house that Mademoiselle Loiré had sent them, that it was a villa standing by itself, and was rather surprised when the fiacre, after climbing a very steep street, stopped at a door and deposited herself and her trunks before it. Almost before she rang the bell she heard hurried steps, and the door was opened by some one whom she imagined might be the housekeeper.

"Is Mademoiselle Loiré in?" she inquired of the thin and severe-looking woman with hair parted tightly in the middle.

"I am Mademoiselle Loiré," she replied stiffly in French, "and you, I suppose, are Miss Britton! I am sorry there was no one at the station to meet you, but we did not expect you so soon."

"Did you not get my post-card?" Barbara asked.

"I could not possibly do that," Mademoiselle Loiré returned reprovingly; "it was posted in Paris far too late for that. However, perhaps you will now come into the salon," and Barbara followed meekly into a room looking out upon the garden, and very full of all kinds of things. She had hardly got in before she heard a bustle on the stairs, which was followed by the entrance of Mademoiselle Thérèse Loiré. Her face was not so long nor her hair so tightly drawn back as her sister's, and she came forward with a rush, smiling broadly, but, somehow, Barbara felt she would like the prim sister better.

After asking many questions about the journey they took her to her room, and Barbara's heart sank a little. The house seemed dark and cold after that in Neuilly, and her bedroom was paved with red brick, as was the custom in those parts in old houses.

The dining-room—smelling somewhat of damp—was a long, low room leading straight into the garden, and the whole effect was rather depressing. At supper-time, Barbara was made acquainted with the rest of the household, which consisted of an adopted niece—a plump girl of about seventeen, with very red cheeks and a very small waist—and two boys about twelve, who were boarding with the Loirés so that they might go to the Lycée[1] in the town. After supper, Mademoiselle Thérèse explained that they usually went for a walk with the widower and his children who lived next door.

"Poor things!" she said, "they knew nobody when they came to the town, and a widower in France is so shut off from companionship that we thought we must be kind to them. They have not a woman in the house except a charer, who comes in the first thing in the morning."

Barbara, with a chuckle over the "charer," went to put on her hat, and on coming into the dining-room again, found the widower and his sons already there. Something in the shape of the back of the elder man seemed familiar to her, and on his turning round to greet her, she recognised her little friend of the train on their first arrival in France. The recognition was mutual, and before she had time to speak he rushed forward and poured forth a torrent of French, while Mademoiselle Thérèse clamoured for an explanation, which he finally gave her.

At last he had to stop for want of breath, and Barbara had time to look at his sons—boys of twelve and sixteen—who seemed a great care to him. All the three, father and sons, wore cloaks with hoods to them, which they called capucines, and as there was very little difference in their heights, they made rather a quaint trio. Barbara was glad to see him again, however, for it seemed to bring her aunt nearer.

It amused her considerably to notice how Mademoiselle Thérèse flew from one party to another, during the whole of the walk, evidently feeling that she was the chaperon of each individual. She started out beside the widower, but soon interrupted his conversation by dashing off to give a word of warning to the boys, and what was supposed to be a word of encouragement to Barbara, who was walking with Marie, the niece, and the widower's eldest son.

It did not make much difference to them, for Jean and Marie seemed to have plenty to say; and after addressing a few careless remarks to Barbara, to which, perhaps, she did not pay much attention, the latter heard her say to her companion, "Bah! there is nothing to be made of her; let us continue;" and she was glad they left her alone that first evening, for she was not in the mood for talking.

[1] Public school.

CHAPTER VI.

THE REVOLT OF TWO.

The days that followed were not as pleasant to Barbara as those she had spent in Paris, for though St. Malo, just across the river, fascinated her, she did not care much for St. Servant, and the people did not prove congenial to her—especially Mademoiselle Thérèse. Though she seemed to be a clever teacher, Barbara could never be sure that she was speaking the truth, and in writing home she described her as "rather a humbug."

"Most English people," she told Barbara shortly after her arrival, "pronounce French badly because their mouths are shaped differently from ours, but yours, Miss Britton, is just right, therefore your accent is already wonderfully good."

The girl laughed; the family had never been in the habit of flattering one another, and she did not appreciate it as much as Mademoiselle Thérèse had meant she should. Indeed, Barbara wished that the lady would be less suave to her and more uniform in temper towards the rest of the household, who sometimes, she shrewdly surmised, suffered considerably from the younger sister's irascibility.

She had just been in St. Servan ten days, when she had an example of what she described in a letter home as a "stage quarrel" between the Mademoiselles Loiré. It began at second déjeuner over some trivial point in the education of Marie, about whom they were very apt to be jealous. Their voices gradually rose higher and higher, the remarks made being anything but complimentary, till finally Mademoiselle Loiré leaped from her seat, saying she would not stay there to be insulted, and darted upstairs. Her sister promptly followed, continuing her argument as she went, but arriving too late at the study door, which was bolted on the inside by the fugitive.

After various fruitless attempts to make herself heard, Mademoiselle Thérèse returned to the dining-room, and after a few words of politeness to Barbara, began once more on the subject of dispute, this time with Marie, her niece. Apparently the latter took a leaf out of her aunt's book, for after speaking noisily for a few minutes, she said she would not be insulted either, and followed her upstairs. Thereupon Mademoiselle Thérèse's anger knew no bounds, and finding that Marie had taken refuge beside her aunt in the study, she began to beat a lively tattoo upon the door.

The two boys, full of curiosity, followed to see what was going on, so Barbara was left in solitary grandeur, with the ruins of an omelette before her, and she, "having hunger," went on stolidly with her meal. She was, in truth, a little disgusted with the whole affair, and was not sorry to escape to her room before Mademoiselle Thérèse returned. They were making such a noise below that it was useless to attempt to do any work, and she was just thinking of going out for a walk, when her door burst open and in rushed Mademoiselle Loiré, dragging Marie with her.

"Keep her with you," she panted; "she says she will kill my sister. Keep her with you while I go down and argue with Thérèse."

Barbara looked sharply at the girl, and it seemed to her that though she kept murmuring, "I'll kill her I—I'll kill her!" half her anger was merely assumed, and that there was no necessity for alarm.

"How can they be so silly and theatrical?" she muttered. Then, glancing round the room to see if there were anything she could give her, she noticed a bottle of Eno's Fruit Salts, and her eyes twinkled. It was not exactly the same thing as sal volatile, of course, but at any rate it would keep the girl quiet, so, pouring out a large glassful, she bade Marie drink it. The latter obeyed meekly, and for some time was reduced to silence by want of breath.

"I shall certainly throw myself into the sea," she gasped at last.

"Well, you will certainly be more foolish than I thought you were, if you do," Barbara returned calmly. "Indeed, I can't think what all this fuss is about."

Marie stared. "Why, it's to show Aunt Thérèse that she must not tyrannise over us like that," she said. "I told her I was going to throw myself into the sea, and as she believes it, it is almost the same thing."

Barbara shrugged her shoulders.

"A very comfortable way of doing things in cold weather," she remarked; "but I want a little quiet now, and I think you had better have some too."

The French girl, somewhat overawed by the other's coolness, relapsed into silence, and when the sounds downstairs seemed quieter Barbara got up, and said she was going out for a walk. She found on descending, however, that the "argument" had only been transferred to mademoiselle's workroom, where a very funny sight met her eyes when she looked in.

The poor little widower, whom apparently the two sisters had fetched to arbitrate between them, stood looking fearfully embarrassed in the middle of the room, turning apologetically from one to the other. He never got any further than the first few words, however, as they brought a torrent of explanation from both his hearers, each giving him dozens of reasons why the other was wrong.

Marie, who watched for a moment or two, could not help joining in; and Barbara, very tired of it all, left them to fight it out by themselves, and went away by the winding streets to the look-out station, where she sat down and watched the sun shining on the beautiful old walls of St. Malo. She had only been once in that town with Mademoiselle Thérèse, but the ramparts and the old houses had fascinated her, and if she had been allowed, she would have crossed the little moving bridge daily.

When she returned, the house seemed quiet again, for which she was very thankful, and, mounting to her room, she prepared the French lesson which was usually given her at that time.

But when Mademoiselle Thérèse came up, she spent most of the time in bewailing the ingratitude of one's fellow mortals, especially near relations, and wondering if Marie were really going to drown herself, and when her sister would unlock her door and come out of the room.

Supper was rather a doleful meal, and immediately after it mademoiselle went to look for her niece, who had not returned. Barbara laughed a little scornfully at her fears, and even when she came back with the news that Marie was not concealed next door, as she had thought, refused to believe that the girl was not hiding somewhere else.

"But where could she be except next door?" mademoiselle questioned; "and when I went to ask, Monsieur Dubois was seated with his sons having supper, and no signs of the truant. He had seen or heard nothing of her, he said."

Barbara wondered which had been deceived, and whether the widower himself was deceived or deceiver, but, giving up the attempt to decide the question, retired to bed, advising mademoiselle to do the same, feeling some curiosity, but no anxiety, as to Marie's fate. She had not been in bed very long when she heard some one move stealthily downstairs and enter the dining-room. Mademoiselle Thérèse, she knew, had locked all the doors and gone to her bedroom, which was in the front of the house, and she immediately guessed that it must be something to do with Marie.

"The plot thickens," she said to herself, stealing to the window, which looked out upon the garden. There, to her amazement, she saw Mademoiselle Loiré emerging laboriously from the dining-room window. She saw her in the moonlight creep down the garden towards the wall at the end, but what happened after that she could only guess at, as the trees cast a shadow which hid the lady from view.

"The lady or the tiger?" she said, laughing, as she peered into the shades of the trees, and about five minutes later was rewarded by seeing two figures hurry back and enter the house by the same way that Mademoiselle Loiré had got out.

"Marie!" she thought triumphantly, wondering in what part of the garden she had been hidden, as there was no gate in the direction from which she had come. She lay awake for a little while, meditating on the vagaries of the family she had fallen into, and then fell so soundly asleep that she was surprised to find it broad daylight when she awoke, and to see Marie sitting on the end of her bed, smiling beamingly upon her.

"So you're back?" Barbara inquired with a yawn. "I hope you didn't find it too cold in the garden last night."

"You saw us, then?" giggled Marie. "But you don't know where I came from, do you? Nor does Aunt Thérèse. I'll tell you now; such an exciting time I've had—just like a story-book heroine."

"Penny novelette heroine," murmured Barbara, but her visitor was too full of her adventure to notice the remark.

"As you know, I told Aunt Thérèse I should drown myself," she began complacently; "but, of course, such was not my intention."

"Of course not," interpolated Barbara drily.

"Instead, I confided my plan to Aunt Marie, then slipped out into the street, and thence to our friends next door."

"The widower's?" exclaimed the English girl in surprise.

"The very same. I explained to him my project for giving my aunt a wholesome lesson; and he, with true chivalry, invited me to sup with them—he saw I was spent with hunger."

Barbara, looking at the plump, rosy face of her companion, which had assumed a tragic air, stifled a laugh, and the girl continued.

"I spent a pleasant time, and was just finishing my repast when the bell rang. 'My aunt!' I cried. 'Hide me from her wrath, Monsieur.' 'The coal-cellar,' he replied, after a moment's stern thought. In one second I had disappeared—I was no more—and when my aunt entered she found him at supper with his sons. When she had gone I returned, and we spent the evening cheerfully in mutual congratulation. At nightfall, when we considered all was secure, Aunt Marie came into the garden, placed a ladder against the wall, and I passed from one garden into the other and regained our room securely. I think Aunt Thérèse suspected nothing—Monsieur Dubois is such a beautiful deceiver."

"Well, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Barbara said hotly. "Apart from the meanness and deceitfulness of it all, you have behaved most childishly, and I shall always think less of Monsieur Dubois for his untruthfulness."

"Untruthfulness!" Marie returned in an offended tone. "He acted most chivalrously; but you English have such barbarous ideas about chivalry."

For a moment Barbara felt tempted to get up and shake the girl, then came to the conclusion that it would be waste of time and energy to argue with an individual whose ideas were so hopelessly dissimilar to her own.

"I'm going to get up now," she said shortly. "I'll be glad if you would go."

"But don't you want to know what we are going to do now?" queried Marie, a little astonished that her companion should not show more interest in such an exciting adventure. "Our campaign has only begun. We will make Aunt Thérèse capitulate before we have done. After all, she is the younger. We intend to stay in our rooms without descending until she promises to ask pardon for her insults, and say no more of the matter; and we will go out nightly to get air—carefully avoiding meeting her—and will buy ourselves sausages and chocolate, and so live until she sees how wrong she has been."

She ended with great pride, feeling that at length she must have made an impression on this prosaic English girl, and was much disconcerted when Barbara broke into laughter, crying, "Oh, you goose; how can you be so silly!"

Marie rose with hurt dignity. "You have no feeling for romance," she said. "Your horizon is most commonplace." Then, struck by a sudden fear, she added, "But you surely will not be unpleasant enough to tell Aunt Thérèse what I have confided to you? I trusted you."

"No," Barbara said, a little unwillingly, "I won't tell her; but I wish you had left me out of the matter entirely, for I certainly cannot lie to her." And with that Marie had to be content.

CHAPTER VII.

A WILD DRIVE.

The uncomfortable "campaign," as Marie had called it, continued for some days, and Barbara was in the unpleasant condition of having both parties confide in her. At the end of that time, however, it seemed as if the dainties that sustained the two upstairs began to pall upon them, as housekeeping evidently did on Mademoiselle Thérèse, and Barbara saw signs of a truce.

This was doubtless hastened by the news that an old family friend was coming with his wife and daughter on the next Sunday afternoon, and, as Mademoiselle Thérèse explained, they must keep up appearances. He was a lawyer who lived at Dol, and from the preparations that were made, Barbara saw that they thought a great deal of him, for there was such baking and cooking as had never been since her arrival. The salad even was adorned with rose leaves, and looked charming, while the Mesdemoiselles Loiré clothed themselves in their best garments.

They all sat in state in the drawing-room as the hour for the arrival of the visitors approached, trying to look as if they had never heard of soufflet or mayonnaise salad, and Barbara, who had been called upon to taste each of the dishes in turn and give an opinion on their worth, almost felt as if she never wished to hear of such things again. About twelve o'clock a fiacre stopped at the door, and a few minutes later the visitors were announced—father, mother, and daughter.

Barbara was agreeably surprised—as indeed she often was by the Loirés' friends—to find that they were so nice. The mother and daughter were both very fashionably dressed, but simple and frank, the father, however, being most attractive to Barbara. He was clever and amusing, and contradicted Mademoiselle Thérèse in such an audacious way, that had it been any one else, she would have retired to her bedroom offended for a week. The visit passed most successfully, Mademoiselle Loiré's cooking being quite as much appreciated as she had expected, and when the visitors said good-bye, Barbara left the sisters congratulating themselves on their success.

A few days later the final word was added to the truce between the sisters by Mademoiselle Thérèse proposing that she should stay at home and look after the house, while her sister took Barbara and Marie for a visit to Cancale, whose beauties, Mademoiselle Thérèse assured Barbara, had a world-wide renown.

But the elder sister, though obviously pleased by the suggestion, thought she would rather "Thérèse" went, while she stayed in St. Servan and paid a few calls that she was desirous of making.

After much discussion it was so determined, and the following day Mademoiselle Thérèse, with the two girls, set off after lunch by the train. The ride was a pleasant one, and the magnificent view of the Bay of Cancale with the Mont St. Michel in the distance delighted Barbara's heart. She much preferred the quaint little fishing village, La Houle, nestling at the foot of the cliffs, to the more fashionable quarter of the town; but Mademoiselle Thérèse, who was bent on "seeing the fashions of the visitors," led the way with energy to the hotel half way up the cliff. It was certainly gay enough there, and the Frenchwoman explained to her pupil "that if one noticed the costumes at seaside resorts it often saved buying fashion-books."

They sat on the terrace, mademoiselle and Marie dividing their attention between a stout lady, in a gorgeous toilet of purple trimmed with blue, and oysters, which, the Frenchwoman assured Barbara, were "one of the beauties of the place." But the latter contented herself with tea, wondering idly, as she drank it, why the beverage so often tasted of stewed hay. After their refreshment they strolled round the town, and then sat upon the promenade, watching the sun travel slowly down the sky towards the sea-line.

Suddenly mademoiselle remembered the time, and, looking at her watch, declared they had but a few minutes in which to get to the train, and that they must run if they wished to catch it. Off they started, mademoiselle panting in the rear, calling upon the girls to wait, and gasping out that it would be of no use to arrive without her. They were extremely glad on arriving at the terminus to see that they had still a minute or two to spare.

"We are in time for the train?" mademoiselle asked of a gendarme standing near the station house.

The man stared at her.

"Certainly, madame," he said at last; "but would it not be as well to come here in the morning?"

"In the morning!" she echoed. "You foolish fellow! We want to go by this train—it should be here now—it leaves at 7.30."

"Ah!" the man said, and he seemed to understand. "I fear you have lost that train by several days; it went last Sunday."

"What!" screamed mademoiselle. "How dare you mock me! I will report you."

"That must be as madame wishes," returned the man with horrible calmness; "but the train madame wishes to get only runs on Sundays, and, therefore, she must wait several days for the next. If any other train will do, there is one in the morning at 9.30."

Barbara wanted to laugh, but consideration—or fear—of Mademoiselle Thérèse—kept her quiet, and they stood gazing at one another in sorrowful silence. A ten-mile walk at 7.30 in the evening, unless with very choice companions, is not an unmitigated pleasure, especially when one has been walking during the day. However, there was nothing for it but to walk, as a conveyance, if obtainable, would have been too expensive for Mademoiselle Thérèse's economical ideas.

They declared at first that it was a lovely evening, and began to cheer their way by sprightly conversation, but a mile or two of dusty highroad told upon them, and silence fell with the darkness. It was a particularly hot evening too, and great heat, as every one knows, frequently tends to irritation, so perhaps their silence was judicious. Mademoiselle Thérèse kept murmuring at intervals that it really was most annoying, as her sister would have been expecting them much earlier, and would be so vexed. Perhaps visions of a second retirement, which no "family friend" would come to relieve, floated before her eyes.

More than half the distance had been covered when they heard the sound of wheels behind them.

"A carriage!" cried mademoiselle, roused to sudden energy, "they must give us a lift," and drawing up by the side of the road, they waited anxiously to know their fate. It was fairly dark by this time, and they could not distinguish things clearly, but they saw a big horse, with a light, open cart behind. When mademoiselle first began to speak, the driver took not the least notice, but after going a few yards, pursued by her with praiseworthy diligence and surprising vigour, he pulled up and pointed to the seat behind, the place beside him being already filled by a trunk.

The wanderers scrambled in joyfully, greatly pleased with their good luck, and it was not until they were in their places, and near the man, that they discovered he had been drinking freely and was not as clear-headed as he might have been. If there had been time they would all have got out again, but he whipped up so quickly that there was no chance. He continued to whip up, moreover, till they were going at a most break-neck speed.

Mademoiselle, clinging madly to the side of the cart, begged him in the midst of her gasps and exclamations to let them descend; but the more she begged and the more desperate she became, the better pleased he seemed, and it really looked as if they might all be thrown into the ditch. Then mademoiselle, who was always rather nervous about driving, broke into shrill screams, with Marie joining in at intervals—Gilpin's flight was nothing to it—and the cart jolted and swayed so that calm expostulation was impossible.

A lesson in rough-riding to a beginner could not have proved a more disjointing experience, and the man, chuckling over the loudly-expressed fear of his companions, drove on. Fortunately, there were not many turns, and the road was fairly wide all the way; but once Barbara felt the hedge brush her face, and Marie's handkerchief, which she had been using to mop up her tears, was borne away a few minutes later by the bushes on the opposite side of the road.

The only thing that could be said in favour of the drive was that they covered the ground with great speed, and the thought occurred to Barbara that it would be by no means pleasant to enter the streets of St. Servan with their present driver and two screaming women, as, apart from other considerations, they might meet the policeman, and the encounter would be unpleasant.

She told mademoiselle and Marie that if they did not want to be killed or locked up in the préfecture, they must jump off the back of the cart while going up the hill outside the town. The horse, after its wild career, would calm down on the incline, besides which, a fall in the road would be preferable to being thrown through a shop window.

It took very forcible language to make Mademoiselle Thérèse face present terror rather than await the future; but, when the horse really did slow down to a walk, and the two girls had reached the ground in safety, she made a mighty effort, and floundered out in a heap upon the road, making so much noise that Barbara was afraid the man would realise they were gone, and insist upon their getting in again.

But he whipped up at that moment, and the noise of the cart drowned the dolorous complaints. The girls soothed their companion by assuring her that in ten minutes they would be home, when, most assuredly, her sister's heart would be moved to pity by their sorry plight and the tale of their adventures.

Just as they arrived at their own door they met Mademoiselle Loiré hurrying up, and her sister, thinking she was coming to look for them, and not knowing the reception she might get, fell upon her neck, pouring forth with incoherent sobs and explanations the tale of their woes.

Mademoiselle Loiré was most sympathetic and unreproachful, and, having dried her sister's tears, led her into the house, where the whole party sat down to cake and cider, under the influence of which Mademoiselle Thérèse quite recovered, and retold their adventures, Barbara realising for the first time, as she listened, what heroines they had been!

Their screaming advance along the highroad became a journey, where they sat grimly, with set teeth, listening to the curses of a madman, and bowing their heads to escape having them cut off repeatedly by the branches of trees.

Their ignominious exit from the cart on the hill became a desperate leap into the darkness, when the vehicle was advancing at full gallop; and when Barbara finally rose to say good-night, she felt as if they had all been princesses in a fairy-tale, in which, alas! there had been no prince.

She learned two things on the morrow—not counting the conviction that riding at a gallop in a cart made one desperately stiff. The first was from Marie, who told her that Mademoiselle Loiré's forbearance with their late return, and her intense sympathy with their adventures, probably arose from the fact that she had just been returning from her own expedition when she met the wanderers, and had been filled with very similar fears concerning her reception as those which had filled her sister's heart.

The other fact, which Barbara read aloud to Mademoiselle Thérèse from the newspaper, was that Jean Malet had been apprehended for furious driving at a late hour the previous night, and would have to pay a heavy fine.

"How he had come safely through the streets at such speed," said the journalist, "was a miracle. Fortunately, there was no one in the cart but himself."

"Fortunately, indeed, there was not," remarked Barbara, folding up the paper.

CHAPTER VIII.

MONT ST. MICHEL.

The following day Barbara was taken to a confirmation service at a Roman Catholic church in the town, for one of Marie's younger brothers was coming from the country to be confirmed. Barbara watched the service curiously, feeling rather as if she were in a dream. The bishop entered the church with much pomp, adorned in wonderful lace and embroidered vestments. His progress up the aisle was slow, for there were many mothers and sisters with little children, whom they presented to him for his blessing, and he patiently stopped beside each, giving them his ring to kiss.

He was waited on by the clergy of the church and some from the country round, and these latter amused Barbara not a little, for they carried their rochets in newspapers, or in shabby brown bags, which they left in corners of the seats, while they slipped on their rochets in full view of every one. Then the boys, accompanied by their godfathers, the girls by their godmothers, filed slowly up to the bishop, who blessed each in turn. On leaving him they passed in front of two priests, the first attended by a boy bearing a basket of cotton-wool pellets dipped in oil, the second by a boy with a basket of towels.

The first priest rubbed the forehead of each child with oil, and the next one dried it. After which they went singing to their places.

The ceremony was a very long one, and Barbara was not very sorry when it was over. She grew weary before the close, and was glad when they made their way home, accompanied by Marie's father—the Loirés' half-brother—and the little boy. The former was a farmer in the country, and Barbara thought he was much pleasanter to look upon than either his daughter or sisters.

Mademoiselle Loiré had provided him at lunch with his favourite dish—shrimps—and Barbara could hardly eat anything herself, being completely fascinated with watching him. He had helped himself pretty liberally, and, to her amazement, began to eat them with lightning speed. He bent fairly low over his plate, resting an elbow on each side, and, putting in the whole shrimp with his left hand, almost immediately seemed to take out the head and tail with the other, working with machine-like regularity. It was an accomplishment that Barbara was sure would bring him in a lot of money at a show, and she began to picture to herself a large advertisement, "Instantaneous Shrimp-eater," and the products that might arise therefrom.

When he had almost demolished the dish of shrimps he stopped, looked a little regretfully at the débris on his plate, then straightened himself in his chair, and began to take an interest in what was going on around him. He smiled benignly on his sisters, teased his daughter, and looked with shy curiosity at Barbara, to whom he did not dare to address any remarks until nearly the end of lunch. Then he said very slowly, and in a loud voice as if speaking to a deaf person, "Has the English mademoiselle visited the Mont St. Michel yet?"

Barbara shook her head.

"It is a pleasure for the future, I hope," she said.

"But certainly, of course, she must go there," he said, still speaking laboriously. Then after that effort, as if exhausted, he relapsed into silence.

But Mademoiselle Thérèse pursued the idea, and before the meal was over had fixed a day in the following week for the excursion. As her sister had already been at the Mont more than once, it was decided she should remain with Marie, so that the pleasant task of accompanying Barbara fell, as usual, to Mademoiselle Thérèse. At the last moment the numbers were increased by the little widower, who suddenly made up his mind to join them, with his eldest son.

"It is long since I have been," he declared, "and it is part of the education of Jean to see the wonders of his native land. Therefore, mademoiselle, if you permit us, we will join you to-morrow. It will be doubly pleasant for us to go in the company of one so learned."

Mademoiselle Thérèse could not help bowing at such a compliment, but it is doubtful whether she really appreciated the widower's proposal. The little man was quite capable of contradicting information she might give Barbara if he thought it incorrect, and when he was there she could not keep the conversation entirely in her own hands.

By the girl's most earnest request, she had agreed to stay the night at the Mont, and they started off in highest spirits by an early morning train.

Her two companions poured into Barbara's ears a full historical account of Mont St. Michel, sometimes agreeing, sometimes contradicting each other, and the girl was glad that, when at last the long stretch of weird and lonely sandflats was reached, they seemed to have exhausted their eloquence.

"But where is the sea?" she asked in surprise. "I thought you said the sea would be all round it."

Mademoiselle Thérèse looked a little uncomfortable.

"Yes, the sea—of course. I expected the tide would be high. It ought to be up, I am sure. You told me too that the tide would be high," and she turned so quickly upon the widower that he jumped nervously.

"Yes, of course, that is to say—you told me the tide should be high at present, and I said I did not doubt it since you said it; but I heard some one remarking a few minutes ago that it would be up to-morrow."

"Never mind," Barbara interposed, for she saw signs of a fresh discussion. "It will be all the nicer to see it rise, I am sure." And, fortunately, the widower and Mademoiselle Thérèse agreed with her.

The train, crowded with visitors, puffed slowly towards St. Michel, and Barbara watched the dim outline of gray stone become clearer, till the full beauty of the Abbaye and the Merveille burst upon her sight.

"St. Michael and All Angels," she murmured, looking up towards the golden figure of the archangel on the top of the Abbaye. "He looks as if guarding the place; but what cruel things went on below him."

"Shocking tragedies!" mademoiselle assured her, having heard the last words. "Shocking tragedies! But let us be quick and get out, or else we shall not arrive in time for the first lunch. Now you are going to taste Madame Poulard's omelettes—a food ambrosial. You will wonder! They alone are worth coming to the Mont St. Michel for."

They hurried out over the wooden gangway that led from the train lines to the gate at the foot of the Mont, and entered the strange-stepped streets, and marvelled at the houses clinging to the rock. They were welcomed into the inn by Madame Poulard herself, who, resting for a moment at the doorway from her labours in the kitchen, stood smiling upon all comers.

Barbara looked with interest at the long, low dining-room, whose walls bore tokens of the visits of so many famous men and women, and at whose table there usually gathered folk from so many different nations.

"There is an Englishman!" she said eagerly to Mademoiselle Thérèse, for it seemed quite a long time since she had seen one of her countrymen so near.

"But, yes, of course," mademoiselle answered, shrugging her shoulders. "What did you expect? They go everywhere," and she turned her attention to her plate. "One must be fortified by a good meal," she said in a solemn whisper to Barbara as they rose, "to prepare one for the blood-curdling tales we are about to hear while seeing over the Abbaye."

And though the girl allowed something for exaggeration, it was quite true that, after hearing the stories, and seeing the pictures of those who had perished in the dungeons, she felt very eerie when being taken through them. In the damp darkness she seemed to realise the terror that imprisonment there must have held, and she thought she could almost hear the moans of the victims and the scraping of the rats, who were waiting—for the end.

"Oh!" she cried, drawing a long breath when they once more emerged into the open air. "You seem hardly able to breathe down there even for a little while—and for years——" She shuddered. "How could they bear it?"

"One learns to bear everything in this life," Mademoiselle Thérèse replied sententiously, shaking her head and looking as if she knew what it was to suffer acutely. "One is set on earth to learn to 'suffer and grow strong,' as one of your English poets says."

Barbara turned away impatiently, and felt she could gladly have shaken her companion.

"One wants to come to a place like this with nice companions or alone," she thought, and it was this feeling that drove her out on to the ramparts that evening after dinner. She was feeling happy at having successfully escaped from the noisy room downstairs, and thankful to the game of cards that had beguiled Mademoiselle Thérèse's attention from her, when she heard footsteps close beside her, and, turning round, saw Jean Dubois.

"Whatever do you want here?" she said a little irritably; then, hearing his humble answer that he had just come to enjoy the view, felt ashamed of herself, and tried to be pleasant.

"Do you know," she said, suddenly determining to share an idea with him to make up for her former rudeness, "we have seen Mont St. Michel from every side but one—and that is the sea side. I should like to see it every way, wouldn't you? I have just made a little plan, and that is to get up early to-morrow morning, and go out across the sand till I can see it."

"Mademoiselle!" the boy exclaimed. "But is it safe? The sands are treacherous, and many have been buried in them."

"Yes; I know, but there are lots of footsteps going across them in all directions, and I saw some people out there to-day. If I follow the footprints it will be safe, for where many can go surely one may."

It took some time for Jean to grow accustomed to the idea, and he drew his capucine a little closer round him, as if the thought of such an adventure chilled him; then he laid his hand on Barbara's arm.

"I, too," he said, "will see the view from that side. Mademoiselle Barbara, I will come with you."

"But your father? Would he approve, do you think?"

"But assuredly," Jean said hastily; "he wishes me to get an entire idea of Mont St. Michel—to be permeated, in fact. It is to be an educational visit, he said."

"Very well, then. But we must be very early and very quiet, so that we may not disturb mademoiselle. I am not confiding in her, you understand. Can you be ready at half-past five, so that we may be back before coffee?"

"Assuredly—at half-past five I shall be on the terrace," and Jean's cheeks actually glowed at the thought of the adventure. "There was so much romance in it," he thought, and pictured how nice it would be telling the story to Marie afterwards.

Barbara herself was very gleeful, for it was nice to be able to act without wondering whether she was showing the younger ones a good example or not. She felt almost as if she were back at school, and that feeling was intensified by the little cubicle bedrooms with which the visitors at Madame Poulard's were provided. She had been a little anxious as to whether she would awaken at the right hour, but found, on opening her eyes next morning, that she had plenty of time to spare.

She dressed noiselessly, for mademoiselle was sleeping in the next room, and she did not want to rouse her, and stole down the passage and into the terrace, where Jean was waiting for her. They were early risers at Mont St. Michel, and the servants looked with some curiosity, mingled perhaps with disapproval, at the couple, but they recognised the girl as being English, and of course there was no accounting for what any of that nation did! It was a lovely morning, and Barbara, picking her way over the rocks, hummed gaily to herself, for it was an excursion after her own heart.

Jean cast rather a doubtful eye from the rocks to the waste of sand in front of them, but, seeing his companion did not hesitate, he could not either, and stepped out boldly beside her.

"You see," Barbara explained, "it is really perfectly hard here, and we will keep quite close to the footsteps that lead right out to that other rock out there."

"But you are surely not going as far as that?" he inquired anxiously. "We should never be back in time for coffee."

"I don't think so," Barbara returned gaily; "but we'll see how we get on."

When once Jean saw that the ground was perfectly sound beneath their feet, and that the footprints went on unwaveringly, he felt reassured, and really began to enjoy himself. They turned round every now and then to look back at the Mont, but decided each time that they had not got quite far enough away to get a really good effect.

"You know," said Jean, some of his fears returning after a time, "one usually has guides—people who know the sands—to take one out so far. I trod on a very soft place just now."

"Keep near the footprints then," Barbara answered. "The tide hasn't been up yet, and the sands can't surely change in the night-time. Just a little farther, and then we will stop."

They stopped a few minutes later, and both declared that the view was well worth the walk, the only thing that Barbara regretted being that it was too damp to sit down and enjoy it at their ease.

"It would have been nice to get as far as Tombelaine," the girl said at last, turning from St. Michel to take another look at the rocky islet farther out; "but I suppose we really must be going home again now."

Jean did not answer her. He had turned with her towards the rock; then his eyes had wandered round the horizon, and had remained fixed in such a stare that the girl wondered what he saw.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "What is it you are seeing, Jean?"

"The sea," he gasped, his face becoming ashen. "Mademoiselle—the tide—it advances—we will be caught."

Barbara looked across the long stretch of gray sand till her eyes found the moving line of water.

"It is nearer," she said slowly; "but of course it always comes in every day."

"Yes—but—to-day—I had forgotten—it is to be high tide—all round the Mont. Did you not hear them say so?"

"Yes," Barbara owned; "I remember quite well now. But let us hurry—it is a long way off yet. We have plenty of time." She spoke consolingly, for Jean's face was blanched and she saw he was trembling.

"But, mademoiselle, you do not understand. Did you not hear them telling us also that the tide advances so rapidly that it catches the quickest horse? Oh, I wish we had told some one of this journey—that some one had seen us. They would have warned us. We should have been safe."

It was then for the first time that the thought of danger entered Barbara's head, and she took her companion's hand.

"Let us run, then. Quick!" she said. "We are not such a very long way off."

Jean hesitated only a moment, his eyes, as if fascinated, still on the water; then he turned his face towards the Mont, and sped over the sand more fleetly than Barbara would have believed possible to him—so fleetly, indeed, that he began to leave the girl, who was swift of foot, behind.

She glanced over her shoulder at the sea, which certainly was drawing in very rapidly, licking over the sand greedily, then forward at St. Michel, and fell to a walk. She knew she could not run the whole distance for it was not easy going on the sand, especially when an eye had always to be kept un the guiding footprints.