"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."