After we had gone about a mile, at a very quick pace, I began to slacken my speed, and to try and comfort my little companion. At first she appeared inconsolable, but by trying hard, I at length made some impression—won her mind away from the terrors and sorrows of her situation, and got her to speak a word or two in reply to my question. She told me that her name was Mariette, and that she had walked some way that day—that her mother had rushed into the room where she was playing, all covered with blood, as I had seen her just before—had caught her up in her arms, and rushed out of a château where they lived, by a back way, plunging at once into the wood. They had then walked a long distance, she said, her mother sometimes carrying her, sometimes letting her run by her side; and I could perceive that, delicately nurtured and unaccustomed to hard exercise, the poor little thing was already considerably tired. I was a strong, big boy, and so without more ado, I took her up in my arms and carried her. After some way, I put her down again, and she walked on refreshed, and then I carried her again, and then we sat down upon a bank and rested; and I got her water from the stream in the hollow of my hand, and tried to amuse her by telling her stories. But I never was a good story-teller in all my life, and I did not succeed very well. All this occupied time, however, and when we arrived within half a mile of the town, light was fading fast. This alarmed me; not that I had any fear of darkness, but it was good Jeanette’s custom, in the gray of the evening to walk out through our little garden in the tower, down the stair-case, the door of which lay on the left-hand side, and lock the door below. I did not like to go in by the great gates of the town, both because the distance was greater, and because I thought some questions might be asked about Mariette; and I resolved, at all events, to attempt our private entrance before I yielded to necessity. I encouraged my little companion to hurry her steps, by pointing out the town rising before us, and telling her that if she made haste, she would in a few minutes be with Father Bonneville, and he would be so good and kind to her she could not think. I told her, also, of good Jeanette, and what a nice creature she was, and I succeeded in engaging her attention and leading her on much faster than before. We soon reached the foot of the hill, climbed the steep little path which led to the door at the foot of the tower, and with great joy and some surprise I found it open.
“Now come in, Mariette,” I said, “and don’t be afraid of the dark; for this stair-case leads to our garden, and the garden to the house.”
She said she was not at all afraid of the dark; that her papa often made her walk with him in the dark; and she followed me quite readily, holding tight by my hand, however.
In the garden above we found good old Jeanette, with her snow-white cap, and her mittens. I found that she had become anxious at my long absence, and had abstained from locking the door lest I should determine to come in that way. Her surprise to see my little companion, and the state of grotesque agitation and bustle into which the sight threw her, I shall never forget. My explanations soon banished surprise by other emotions. I told all I knew of poor Mariette’s story as simply as I could, and the good creature’s heart was instantly touched; the tears gathered in her eyes, and taking the poor little girl in her arms, she said, “Come with me, my child—come with me. Here we will make you a home where you will be as happy as the day is long.”
“I can’t be happy without papa and mamma,” replied Mariette, bursting into tears again, and Jeanette, weeping for company, carried her off into the house, while I ran down the stairs to lock the door of the tower. When I entered the house again, I found that Father Bonneville was out visiting some sick people, and had been absent for several hours. Mariette wanted no kind of tendence, however, that was not given to her by good Jeanette. She put her pretty little feet in warm water; she gave her a cup of the thin chocolate which usually formed the good priest’s supper, and she endeavored, with far greater skill than mine, to wile away her thoughts from all that was painful in memory, or her new situation. Mariette soon began to prattle to her, and leaning her head upon her shoulder, said she loved her very much; but then, after a few minutes, the bright young eyes closed, the little head leaned heavier, and Jeanette, moving her gently, carried her away to my small room, and placed her gently in my bed, “to sleep it out,” as she said.
About half an hour after, good Father Bonneville returned, and his face showed evident traces of sorrow and perplexity. But still my story was to be told, and it seemed to perplex him still more.
“Do you know her name?” he asked.
“Mariette, Father,” I replied.
“But what more, besides Mariette?” he asked; and as I could give him no information, he made me describe, as accurately as I could, the appearance of the lady I had seen. I spoke of her bright and beautiful eyes, and I described her as very pale; but the good priest inquired whether she was tall.
“Oh yes,” I replied; “a good deal taller than Jeanette.”