"If I'm strong enough to plant trees, I'm strong enough to carry a chassepot," he declared. "If I can dig holes for trees, I can dig graves for Prussians."
Mary condoled with him, listened to his tales of the Emperor, not the degenerate captive of the enemy, but the great Napoleon, and lamented with him the glory of which he was being foiled by his father's cruelty.
"We must fight on for years, Gambetta says, and, who knows? I may rise to be a marshal of France before the war comes to an end."
"You might be Emperor," Mary agreed with enthusiasm.
Pierre tried to look modest and disclaim so exalted an ambition as that; but there was in the manner of his disclaimer a suggestion that he did not think such an altitude impossible.
Mary saw a good deal of Pierre, because Mademoiselle who was sorry for the boy raised no objection to her frequenting his company. For a long time Mary had been anxious to visit the ruined castle on the hill above the town, and on All Saints' Day she begged and obtained permission to be escorted there by Pierre. There was not much left of the old castle beyond crumbling ivy-colored walls and nettle-grown courts, although there was one round tower, which was still almost intact. Below the foundations of this tower was a large oubliette bristling with the very spikes which had impaled unhappy prisoners precipitated upon them years ago. Mary and Pierre gazed down with awe through the open trap and imagined that they could still see bones and bloodstains upon the floor thirty feet below. Immediately beside the trap was a small embrasure in the thick walls of the tower lighted by a lancet window through which could be seen a vast expanse of country, meadows and woods and vineyards and that great serpent the Saône. Hither it was that the prisoner condemned to die was led up blinking from the dungeons below to take his last look at France; here he was allowed to spend a few wistful moments; hence he stepped upon the trap to vanish forever from the eyes of men.
There was room for both Mary and Pierre to stand close together in the embrasure and on this holy morn to gaze out at the russet landscape breathless beneath the milky blue of the November sky.
"My little one," said Pierre, "I would rather throw myself down into that oubliette than stay here any longer while France bleeds to death. Hark! Do you hear the sound of drums?"
"Yes, very far away. Trump—trump—trump—trump!" she whispered in awe of the menacing beat.
"Alors, je file!" he cried. "You can find your way home alone?"