"I have come to see M. le Vicomte de Soucy," answered Anne-Hilarion. "He is above, is he not?"
"The French gentleman? Yes, he is. I'll go first, dearie; mind the pail, now. To come alone—I never did! And who shall I say?"
"The Comte de Flavigny," responded the little boy, with due gravity.
Strange to say, M. de Soucy, in his attic room, did not hear the announcement, nor even the shutting of the door. He was sitting at a table, with his back to the visitor, his head propped between his hands, a letter open before him. There was that in his attitude which gave Anne-Hilarion pause; but he finally advanced, and said in his clear little voice:
"M. le Vicomte!"
The émigré started, removed his hands, and turned round. "Grand Dieu, c'est toi, Anne!"
His worn face looked, thought Anne-Hilarion, as if he had been crying—if grown-up people ever did cry, about which he sometimes speculated. But he was too well bred to remark on this, and he merely said, in his native tongue, "I have come to ask you, M. le Vicomte, to take me to France to see my Papa."
M. de Soucy, putting his hand to his throat, stared at him a moment. Then he seemed to swallow something, and said, "I am afraid I cannot do that, my child."
Anne-Hilarion knew that grown-up people do not always fall in at once with your ideas, and he was prepared for a little opposition.
"Your health is perhaps not re-established?" he suggested politely (for he was master of longer words in French than in English). He did not like to refer to M. le Vicomte's lameness in so many words. But M. le Vicomte made a gesture signifying that his health was of no account, so Anne-Hilarion proceeded.