”‘Oh yes,’ said Pierre; ‘I have enough to pay my journey. I mean to get on as fast as I can till I am near Paris. Then, perhaps, it will be as well to go on foot. No one will pay any attention to a young fellow like me, and I daresay it is as well for me not to have much money with me. It might be stolen. The Countess is sure to have money; there is no fear on that score!’
“Nanette hesitated.
”‘I don’t know,’ she said; ‘there is no telling to what straits even she may be brought. See here, Pierre,’ she added, going to a cupboard from which she took out a locked box; ‘in here are some of my savings. Take what you can; it is my own money, and even if it were not, Albert would be the last to grudge it in such a case,’ and she forced into the boy’s hands a little packet containing a few gold coins. ‘See here, a moment; I will stitch it into the lining of your coat, where no one would suspect it.’
“Pierre did not resist.
”‘It is for them,’ he said simply, ‘and for them I thank you. At worst, Nanette, my father and mother would repay you. Tell them you gave it to me; it will make them less anxious about me. Try to see them soon—before noon, will you not? And tell them you agree with me that if anything is to be done it is best at once, and that it was best for my father to stay at home.’
”‘Yes,’ said Nanette, ‘I will say all. I think you are right, Pierre. Farewell, and God bless you, my friend!’
“She stood at the door, watching him along the road as far as she could see, and then with a sigh re-entered her cottage.
”‘I wish he were safe back again, and our dear ladies with him,’ she said to herself. ‘Though even their absence would seem nothing now, were one sure they were in safety. I wish they were safe in some other country, however far away, and even if we could not see them for years. It is too dreadful to think of what may happen to them—of what may have already happened. My sweet lady and the dear tender little Edmée! Ah! I must not think of it, or I shall unfit myself for everything. Albert must not tell me any more of the dreadful things he hears. Not till they are safe at least.’
“I cannot tell very much of Pierre Germain’s journey to Paris. He himself used to say he did not, in after years, recall it very clearly; later events and anxieties made it grow vague and cloudy. But nothing of very great importance occurred. As he had himself said, he was not a figure in any way conspicuous, or likely to draw much attention. A fine, sturdy young fellow of seventeen or eighteen, his little bundle slung over his shoulder, making his way along the country roads, whistling as he went, or now and then mounted on the top of the public coach ready for a little conversation, or to give a helping hand with the horses if he were wanted—he had not the appearance of a dangerous person. Nor would any one have suspected the intense anxiety he learned so well to hide, the burning eagerness to get to the end of his journey which possessed him. All the information he could pick up, without seeming too much interested in doing so, he tried to acquire. And the nearer he approached the capital the greater seemed the half-suppressed excitement, the stranger became the looks and tones of many of the people he came across; while all through his journey he met the sight of burnt and ruined châteaux, of convents deserted by their inmates and pillaged by the neighbouring townspeople or villagers, of farms where no longer the cheerful sounds of labour were to be heard—and everywhere misery and reckless disorder.
“He had no difficulty in entering the great city.