Red Caps and Lilies

by Katharine Adams

As he walked away from the seed shop, Dian felt deeply grateful that he had become acquainted with the farmer’s boy, Raoul. He would be coming and going out of Paris every week. That in itself was something to remember. It was growing dark, and the shepherd walked slowly back by the way which he had taken earlier in the day with Raoul, past the Bois to the Saint Frère house. A small part of his task had already been accomplished. He had found the Saint Frère house. The next thing was to enter it. This would be an easy enough task if the comtesse were at home, but something told Dian that she was not.

It was so dark by the time he reached its gates that he could see the house only vaguely. A fine sleet was falling, and there was something sad about the aspect of the whole place. Dian walked up the marble steps to the great iron door and pulled the silken cord. He heard a loud clang echoing through the great house, but, although he waited for a long time, no one opened the door. He went around to the side of the house which opened directly on to the dark, narrow side street which Marie Josephine had traversed with Gonfleur the night of the bal masqué. After groping about for a while in the dark, Dian found the door leading into the cellar. It was half open. He went inside, stepped over the logs of wood lying on the floor, crept up the steep, dark stairs, and found himself facing a long corridor.

Dian always remembered that walk through the great, silent house. There was no sound anywhere at all, and there was no sign of any human being. The drawing-rooms, the great halls, and the wide stairways seemed never to have known the touch of human footsteps. In one of the smaller rooms, on a pillow of a velvet couch, he saw some needlework and a pair of scissors lying beside it. It looked as though the sewing had been carelessly thrown down, as indeed it had been when Great-aunt Hortense’s servant had come for the comtesse.

Dian stood still in the center of the drawing-room and pondered. He looked at the inlaid mother-of-pearl table from which Humphrey had snatched the blue velvet covering to put about Rosanne, and at the wide hearth where Lisle and Rosanne had toasted the nuts that night a week ago, when so much had happened. Dian could not know of all this, but he worked things out in his mind. The house had not been taken over by the Republican soldiers. Of that he was convinced. Neville had told him of much that was happening, and he knew that he would have found some sign of occupation either by the mob or official authority.

He went on up to the floor above and came to a large room which he was sure must have belonged to the comtesse, for in it were a gilded bed with a blue brocade coverlet, and a tall dressing table with blue draperies and gold toilet articles. There was a little room off this which interested Dian and he stayed in it for some time. Dian had not wanted to go through the house, but he knew that he must do everything in his power to find Lisle and his mother and the little girl who had always been the Little Mademoiselle’s best friend. That was why the little room off the comtesse’s big one interested him so much. There was a sleeping couch, and close by it a table. On the table were arranged some books, and propped against the books was a water-color painting of a dog. In spite of the wobbly legs and ungainly shape, Dian realized that it was meant to be a likeness of Flambeau. He picked it up and read what was written on it:

“Flambeau wishes to give you his best felicitations for your birthday. Your friend, Marie Josephine.”

The date was that of a year or more before. It evidently had been one of Rosanne’s greatest treasures. She had brought it with her when she had had to leave her own home so suddenly for the Saint Frère home. As Dian looked at the painting, he felt the same sadness of heart that he had felt when Grigge had begged him not to go away. It was because he had such deep and tender pity for any one in distress.

He passed on to the servants’ part of the house. Everywhere he saw evidence of careless, hasty departure. There was one room that seemed different from the others; it gave the air of being occupied. Dian knew at once that it belonged to Henri, the one servant who had stayed, and he whom Neville did not trust. The door of the room was open, and Dian went inside. Henri probably still lived here, and at any moment he might return.

Dian went on down through the vast house, feeling his way in the darkness, until he came to the long corridor on the lower floor. He took a candle from one of many in a bronze candelabra on the hall table, and then, with his sack over his shoulder, made his way to the top of the cellar stairs. Here he lit his candle with flint and tinder which he had found in a box on the drawing-room floor. Then he climbed down, down, until he came to the dim cellar. He knelt on the floor and pressed the little square stone—the seventh—that was wedged in between the other stones. The stone slid aside and, as the space opened to receive him, he descended slowly into the heart of the ancient house, into the furthermost depths of its hidden fastness. Before descending, he touched the stone and it slipped back into place. He had faith that it would open as easily again at his touch. He had searched for no lodging in Paris that day because he knew that he would lodge deep underground. He was “the other one” who knew of the hidden cellar!