“Stop! Do you hear me? I say you are to stop. Do not dare to hurt little Jean, Grigge!”
Grigge had Jean upon the ground and was pounding him with his fists.
Marie Josephine ran over to the two boys.
“It would break Dian’s heart to see you,” she cried. Grigge immediately left off pounding and stood up, and after a moment Jean followed his example. Grigge looked sullen and sheepish, but Jean’s little face glowed. Marie Josephine had given him a look of approval.
They stood there, the three of them, in the pale wintry sunshine. Marie Josephine looked straight into Grigge’s eyes. She held her blue cloak about her shoulders, her curls blew in the wind, and on her white, earnest face was a look that had never been there before.
“I didn’t know, Grigge. I am just waking up to—oh, so many things! You are not the only one who has trouble now, remember that. We must all try to help each other.” As she spoke, she turned away toward the gates, but Grigge’s voice followed her.
“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,” he cried.
Late the next afternoon Marie Josephine sought Jean at the cottage. He was alone, sitting on the settle by the fire, and he was just finishing his early supper of onion soup. Mother Barbette had gone to the hovel to take some soup to Grigge’s youngest sister, who was ailing.
Marie Josephine shut the door behind her and came over and sat on the settle, well pleased to find that Jean was alone.
“It is soon time for me to be dressed for our supper, so I can only stay for a very little while. I have been thinking some more, Jean, and I am going to tell you what I have planned to do.” She looked at him very earnestly as she spoke. “I think I shall tell you—if only I can be quite, quite sure that I can trust you. Now do not frown. You might forget and let a word slip. Will you promise me that you will never, never let any one know what I am going to tell you?” She put both hands on his shoulders as she spoke and her eyes shone with eagerness.