Red Caps and Lilies

by Katharine Adams

Proté returned her charge’s embrace fervently, and then went over to the doorway. As she went out she looked back at the little figure in the great bed.

“Good night, Little Mademoiselle. God guard you!” she said.

Marie Josephine lay very still, the wooden-faced doll beside her. She heard a clock strike ten and then eleven, and after waiting a few moments, jumped lightly out of bed, and going over to the door, bolted it. Then, aided only by the moonlight streaming in through the wide casement near her bed, she went over to a cupboard and, standing on a chair, reached back as far as she could and lifted out a box. She jumped down and went over to the bed with the box and opened it. She drew out a shabby, rather soiled, black calico apron. She began to dress herself rapidly, discarding her lace-trimmed petticoat and putting on plain garments such as a peasant child would wear. Over them she put the black, smocklike apron. She went over to the dressing table, and opening a drawer, fished about until she found a pair of scissors. Then she began to clip her hair. It fell in soft, warm waves on to her shoulders and thence to the floor. When she had finished, she looked into the glass and by the light of the moon was able to see herself plainly.

She saw a pale little girl with big, black eyes, whose ragged, unkempt-looking black locks flapped about her face! She smiled into the glass and the forlorn, black-clad figure smiled back at her. Then she put on a warm, worn jacket with a torn sleeve, tucked a black handkerchief about her neck and tossed back her uneven wisps of black hair. She took a bundle from the box on the bed and, after one glance about the room, unbolted the door and went out, closing it softly behind her.

She crept along the hall until she came to Madame Le Pont’s room. She stopped by the closed door and wrapped a note about the knob. After waiting a moment and listening, she went back to her own door. There was a whine and a scratch on the other side. It was Flambeau, who had slept soundly while she was dressing, but who had awakened and missed her.

“Listen, Flambeau,” she breathed through the keyhole. “I’d love to take you with me, doggie, but I’m going where you couldn’t go. I want you and Jean to go along more than, more than——” Her voice trailed into a soft sob. This would never do. She turned away and ran silently and swiftly through the great house, unlocked a small door leading on to a little balcony over the rose garden, and jumped lightly down a distance of a few feet on to the soft new grass of the east terrace.

Then she was off like the wind, her bundle under her arm. She looked back once at the great house, so silver white under the moon. She entered the wood, so fresh and wild and sweet, on this early spring night. Startled wild things in the bushes stirred and scampered at her approach. She must do one thing—she must have one last look at Mother Barbette’s cottage. She stopped running as she caught sight of it through the budding trees. There it was, so warm and snug and red with its straight, quaint stone chimney, its neat stone doorstep. Marie Josephine looked and looked at it as though she could never look long enough or hard enough. Then she turned and walked slowly away. As she entered the wood path again, she thought she saw something moving in the shadow. She had thought the same thing on her way to the cottage. She could not be frightened in her own woods of Les Vignes, but she started to run, and ran on and on, taking the cut through the hedge near the gates as Dian had done, and, like him, going to the huts. She did not knock as he had done, but put her mouth close to the keyhole.

“Grigge!” she called, very softly. Almost before she knew it the door opened and Grigge’s gaunt, long face peered through the opening. When he saw Marie Josephine he came out and closed the door. He did not recognize her at first, and when she spoke his astonishment was so great that he rubbed his eyes with his jacket sleeve and stared at her open-mouthed.

“Listen, Grigge, I have only time to speak a word with you. I am going to find Dian, and to help him and the others, if I can. I want you to know. And, Grigge,” she came a step closer and looked up at him earnestly, “I feel that you can do so much here among the people. For Dian’s sake, help us now. I know that everyone is leaving us, and that there is wild talking in the barns and through the fields. Grigge, I know that you have nothing to be grateful for to us, but will you not help us now? Stay and care for Dian’s sheep. Do not join the wild crowds in the townships.” She touched his arm in farewell and was off, flying down the road as though her feet had wings.

Grigge stood looking after her, so dazed that he could not credit his senses. He had come out half asleep and found a shock-haired peasant girl at his door who had spoken to him with the voice of the Little Mademoiselle! What was it she had said? Do not join the wild crowds in the townships! Little she knew of those crowds, or of anything but ease and luxury. She was right, he had nothing to be grateful for to a Saint Frère. He hated them root and branch. He stood looking after Marie Josephine as she sped away along the moonlit road, as though he could not believe his eyes. Where was she going, and what did it mean? Then some of her words came back to him: “Stay and care for Dian’s sheep!” He went into the close hovel and threw himself down on his oat-straw shakedown.