A Girl of High Adventure

by L. T. Meade

"Mais non, mais non," cried Ninon, clasping her tiny hands. "The great établissement at Arles belongs to Madame Marcelle."

"Then why didst thou cry and get so frightened that day, ma belle grand'mère?" cried little Margot.

"It was an attack of the nerves, ma petite. Now run out and play, thou dost want the air. Thou thyself with thy tact did save mon Alphonse and I am a happy woman again and the dot of my little one—it grows and grows and grows! Ah, but she makes her own dot, n'est-ce pas? Now run out and play; thou didst tell no black lie."

Margot wondered very much indeed if her grand'mère was right. She was a little comforted but not altogether. She had a shrewd sense of the justice of things and went to her almanac to tick off the number of days which yet remained before Uncle Jacko came to fetch her.

Now this little French mademoiselle gave herself in her own sweet independent way a great deal of liberty. She ran whooping and smiling down the avenue. La belle grand'mère saw her and smiled to herself.

"It is dreadful to have la petite with a conscience that pricks," thought grand'mère, "but I think I have soothed her, and to-morrow morning I will communicate with Madame Marcelle and tell her that a lie which rests so lightly on the soul of the French madame must be communicated to little Margot. She must tell little Margot that the établissement is altogether her own, then la petite will smile again and feel that she has told no lie. Yes, it can be done—it must be done! Mon Alphonse notices the cloud on the brow of la petite. It must vanish. She must converse, she must amuse. She must be as of old, a French petite with the wit of Ireland in her veins. Ah, she is truly diverting with her little pricked conscience, but I can set that matter right for her."

Meanwhile Margot walked along the road thinking very hard indeed and wondering if la belle grand'mère had told her the truth. It was now getting to the end of August and in little more than a fortnight she would be returning to that ancient man of might, The Desmond. Oh, how happy she would be; how she would nestle in his arms and tell him of all her sorrows! And on the way to Desmondstown she would confide in Uncle Jacko. Yes, he would tell her what was right to be done—Uncle Jacko, who only feared God, but no man that ever lived—Uncle Jacko with the clear face and soft gentle eyes, who was so unlike Aunt Priscilla, that woman who was altogether terrible. Ah, but even Uncle Jacko was not quite so dear to her as was her grandfather, The Desmond. He and Madam were perfect and so was Uncle Fergus perfect, and as to the old-youngs—well, she could not help them. They were much nicer than most of the French people she saw around her. So she skipped and ran and sang a gay little French song all to herself, but she did not notice that all the time as she was going further and further away from the château, a heavy cloud was coming up and obscuring the sky, a cloud black and cruel as night when it is hopeless—quite hopeless with gloom.

Pretty little Margot suddenly stopped singing because a great heavy blob of rain fell on the tip of her little nose. This was immediately followed by a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder so loud, so vivid, that it seemed to shake the very ground under her feet. There was a hedge at the side of the straight French road and Margot took refuge there, crouching in so as not to get too wet. She had just managed to effect her object when she heard an unmistakably English voice saying to her,

"It's you, Margot St. Juste; I'm your late schoolfellow, Matilda Raynes. I came out without leave. I put on my best hat, the one you chose for me. I wanted to go into Arles and to sun myself in the sight of the French windows of your great shop, Margot. But, behold, look, the rain, it trickles down, it pours in sheets; my chapeau which you chose for me will be destroyed. We were all so glad, Margot, when that horrid Dorothy got stung by the bees of M. le Comte. Oh, but she was a figure of fun, and she howled and screamed when the doctor came and removed the stings. Why did you leave us, little Margot? Could a girl such as Dorothy interfere with you?"

"Yes, she could, she did!" said little Margot. "I'm not going back to the school of la Princesse de Fleury any more."