As the Countess passed down the long corridor she almost ran into young Pierre, the boy. He had been questioned with the rest, but had absolutely nothing to tell. Of course, he knew about the recovery of the Eagle, but that was all. He had known nothing about the midnight meeting. The Countess Laure had taken him into her service, her uncle being willing. And he had spent a miserable day when not with her, wondering and hoping and praying for Marteau. With others in the regiments he had received important news in the last hour, and had made every effort to get it to Marteau, as had been suggested to him, but he had hitherto failed. No sentry would pass him, and there was no way he could get speech with the prisoner.
He was in despair when he saw the Countess approaching, St. Laurent marching ceremoniously ahead, as if to clear the way.
"Mademoiselle," he whispered, plucking her gown.
"What is it?" asked the girl, naturally sinking her voice to the other's pitch.
"You will see—him?"
"Yes."
"A message."
"What is it?"
"Give him this."
The boy thrust into her hand two or three flowers like those her uncle had picked, the first purple blossoms of the virgin spring.