“My mother was French,” she admitted.
De Richleau spoke earnestly. “Mademoiselle, as a foreigner here you are no doubt regarded with some suspicion, the last thing that we wish is that you should incur danger on our behalf, but, if without doing so you could inform us where we should be likely to obtain horses, we shall owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
“Come with me.” She turned abruptly on her heel. “For the present you shall remain in my cottage, later — we will see.”
“That’s real kind,” said Rex, smiling. “But I’m afraid we can’t accept your hospitality. It would mean big trouble for you if we were found in your place.”
She shrugged, impatiently. “I am the teacher of languages there, in the school. I am not a foreigner to them — they have known me since I was a child — come, then!”
They followed her through the darkening woods — the shadows of the trees grew rapidly longer, and it was almost dark when they reached a small cottage, carefully fenced about. No other houses were in sight.
The interior of the tiny place was like the girl herself, neat and gay; the furniture was clumsy and old-fashioned, but the covers and curtains were of bright woven stuffs. A long shelf of well-thumbed books had been carefully recovered in sprigged linen that suggested a bygone bedspread; each bore a little hand-printed label.
The Duke and Simon had not been inside a comfortable room since they had left Moscow; Van Ryn had known the rigours of a Bolshevik prison for the last two months. They all sank into Mademoiselle’s comfortable chairs with relief, and praised Heaven that she had found them.
“Permit us, Mademoiselle, to introduce ourselves. My friends are Mr. Rex Van Ryn of New York, and Mr. Simon Aron of London. I am the Duke de Richleau.”
She smiled at each in turn and to the Duke she said: “So you also are a Frenchman?”