"Yes, Monseigneur."
He sought her hand, kissed it, and then groped his way to the stairs. Sophy followed and went with him down to the porch.
"Be careful to lock your door," he enjoined her, "and don't go out to-morrow unless the streets are quite quiet."
"Oh, but I've a French lesson to give at ten o'clock," she remonstrated with a smile.
"You have to do that?"
"I have to make my living, Monseigneur."
"Ah, yes," he said, meditatively. "Well, slip out quietly—and wear a veil."
"Nobody knows my face."
"Wear a veil. People notice a face like yours. Again thanks, and good-night."
Sophy peeped out from the porch and watched his quick, soldierly march up the street to St. Michael's Square. The night had lightened a little, and she could make out his figure, although dimly, until he turned the corner and was lost to sight. She lingered for a moment before turning to go back to her room—lingered musing on the evening's history.