“Ah, no — but when I was unable to get the horses I woke Monsieur the American, and he begged that I would conduct him to the Château. I should also have been in the trouble if he had not persuaded me to turn back at the gate where I left you. He had a feeling, I think, that all was not well. I like your big friend; he is so gentle.”
De Richleau nodded sadly. “He’s a fine fellow, but it is the little one I am troubled for. He was more gentle still.”
“You were very fond of him?”
“He had become almost like a son to me in my old age.”
“Monsieur Van Ryn will rescue him, perhaps — he is so strong. He could make mincemeat of half a dozen of these little Red soldiers.”
“Perhaps — he has rescued us once already this evening — but I fear poor Simon is lying dead in the snow among the bushes at the bottom of the garden. Tell me more about yourself, Mademoiselle, to take my thoughts off this terrible business.”
“What shall I say?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Life here has been supportable — the people are not unkind. They do not understand me one little bit; that I choose to live alone and will not marry or seek a man — that is strange to them. But in a way it is part of my protection. Many husbands look at me, but I always turn away my head, therefore the wives have nothing to fear from my good looks.”
“Have you never thought of going back to France?”
“Often, Monsieur, I have thought of it, that beautiful France that I know so well from books, and from my mother’s stories. But how? I have no money even if the authorities would let me make the journey.”
“Have you no relatives to whom you could have written?”