“Come then.” The Duke looked round quickly. “Every scrap of food must go with us — also all the warm clothes that we can carry. Bring down the haversacks from the loft, Rex; also the arms and any ammunition you can find on those men. Let Simon sleep until the last moment I will assist Mademoiselle.”
Marie Lou began at once to strip her bed, and spread out the blankets to make bundles. Unfortunately her food supply was very limited, but the iron rations in the haversacks remained practically untouched. She produced quite a number of furs and rugs. De Richleau insisted that they could not have too many, as the cold would prove almost as dangerous as the enemy.
Simon was lowered gently from the loft — the morphia had dulled his pain, but his face was deadly white — his eyes bloodshot and haggard. They laid him on the divan while they made their final arrangements.
“Now, Mademoiselle,” said De Richleau. “If you are ready, we will start.”
She looked sadly round her little home, running her hand over the shelf of books. “We cannot take anything that is not necessary, I am afraid,” added the Duke, gently.
She nodded, unhooking from the wall as she did so a large abacus, painted in many colours.
“Say, what’s that thing?” asked Rex. “Looks like the beads I used to count on when I was a kid.”
“It is for the same purpose, Monsieur.” Marie Lou held it up. A solid square frame with wires stretched across — on each wire a set of gaily coloured beads.
“Every Russian merchant uses one to do his sums,” supplemented the Duke. “They use them as a kind of ready-reckoner. But, surely, Mademoiselle, it is not necessary to take it with us?”
“It belonged to my mother, Monsieur,” she said, simply, as she placed it in the bundle. “She painted it for me.”