Red Caps and Lilies

by Katharine Adams

The coach was so heavy that as it rolled along the quiet country road it made a noise like thunder. The coach was gilded and on the panels were hand-painted pictures of cupids dancing. There had always been two men up on the high seat behind and two in front. Now there was only one man who was driving, and he was not really a coachman at all, but Neville, a footman of the Saint Frères’. He wore a dark livery and he was very intent on his driving.

Marie Josephine leaned way out of the window and looked at him. Then she sat back on the blue velvet cushions of the coach so hard that she bounced up and down.

“Neville looks so funny, so solemn and frowning!” She laughed as she spoke, but there was a little catch in her voice. They had always been taught to hide their feelings with a smile, and Marie Josephine knew that her grandfather would have been glad to hear her laugh. It had all been so strange and different early yesterday morning. Proté had brought her her chocolate and petit pain and she had had her breakfast before she had been dressed. When she had come down to the great entrance hall her mother had been there, waiting. Lisle was there, too, and Hortense and Denise and Madame le Pont. The governess and the girls were ready for departure in their mantles and traveling hats. Maman had seemed different, though she wore, as usual, the mourning for grandfather, the diamond brooch that fastened her lace fichu, and her hair powdered and dressed high, like the queen’s. Maman had been different in spite of all these familiar things. She had held Marie Josephine’s hand as she had talked to the governess, giving directions in her quick, commanding way.

“There is, of course, not the slightest danger to the children. You will not have the least inconvenience, except that you will not have proper service, but I don’t trust the other men servants. There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away. They may guard the gates if things get worse. I am glad to see you starting for Les Vignes.”

While maman had been speaking the steady roar of cannonading never stopped. It had followed them a long way out of the city. They had even heard its faint ghostly murmur when they were lunching at an inn. Marie Josephine had not remembered all that her mother had said, but she had sensed suddenly that there was danger. She had thought over again and again of her mother’s remark: “There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away. They may guard the gates if things get worse.” Maman had, as always, thought of her as being young and unheeding, but she had been listening closely. The others had been talking amongst themselves and had not heard. Over and over the words came back to her: “There may come a time later on when it will not be so easy to get away.”

Cécile du Monde was the only one who smiled when Marie Josephine spoke of Neville. She sat between Hortense and Denise, opposite Marie Josephine and the governess. It had been decided at the last moment that she was to come. She and her brother were distant connections of the De Soignés’ and the Marquis de Soigné had charge of their estates, which were far away in the southwest of France. They were orphans and spent most of their time with their Paris relatives. Madame de Soigné had refused to allow her own child to leave her at the hurried conference in the middle of the night, after the bal masqué was hastily broken up. The sound of cannonading was heard, and alarming reports came in from all sides. It was like the Comtesse Saint Frère to act quickly. She had decided at once that the children, with the exception of Lisle, who refused to leave her, were to start at once for Pigeon Valley and had offered its hospitality to her friends. Madame de Soigné had accepted first for Bertran, who was a troublesome, spoiled boy, of whom she was glad to be rid in the midst of such an anxious time. Then after a talk with Cécile, who felt that she should go with her brother who was younger than she, it had been arranged that they should both accompany the Saint Frère children. As Lisle had told Marie Josephine it would be, Bertran rode with his servant. The sound of their horses’ hoofs could be heard faintly in the still midday air.

Proté sat on a stool at Marie Josephine’s feet although there was plenty of room for her in the seats of the great, roomy coach. Ever since Marie Josephine could remember Proté had sat on the stool at her feet and held her treasures for her as she grew tired of them. Once it had been a large, gilded, blue glass vase, another time a miniature of her great-grandfather, and once a red silk shawl which she had held in her arms pretending it was a baby, cooing to it and singing to it. But all that had been, of course, when she was very young. The wooden Austrian doll, called Trudle, which her uncle had brought her from his journeyings, had always accompanied her until this summer. Madame de Pont, even in the midst of her worry, noticed Trudle’s absence and said:

“Where, chérie, is the little friend Trudle?”

Marie Josephine shrugged her shoulders.

“You are like the others, Madame. You think of me always as a baby, just a baby. Dolls, dolls—why I am done with them!” This time they all laughed, even Proté, who would not have dared to do so had they been accompanied by Madame Saint Frère! She knew well that Trudle was safe in the packing box, on top of the coach!