Monsieur Maurice | Page 5

side, what doth he here, with the usurper at Saint Helena, and Louis the Eighteenth come to his own again?"
"But he is a Bonapartist, father," said I, "for he carries the Emperor's portrait on his snuff-box."
My father laid down his pipe, and drew a long breath expressive of astonishment.
"He showed thee his snuff-box!" exclaimed he.
"Ay--and told me it was the Emperor's own gift."
"Thunder and Mars! And when was this, my little Gretchen?"
"Yesterday morning, on the terrace. And he asked my name; and told me I should go up some day to his room and see his sketches; and he kissed me when he said good-bye; and--and I like Monsieur Maurice very much, father, and I'm sure it's very wicked of the King to keep him here in prison!"
My father looked at me, shook his head, and twirled his long grey moustache.
"Bonapartist or Legitimist, again I say what doth he here?" muttered he presently, more to himself than to me. "If Legitimist, why not with his King? If Bonapartist--then he is his King's prisoner; not ours. It passeth my comprehension how we should hold him at Br��hl."
"Let him run away, father dear, and don't run after him!" whispered I, putting my arms coaxingly about his neck.
"But 'tis some cursed mess of politics at bottom, depend on't!" continued my father, still talking to himself. "Ah, you don't know what politics are, my little Gretchen!--so much the better for you!"
"I do know what politics are," replied I, with great dignity. "They are the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of Satan. I heard you say so the other day."
My father burst into a Titanic roar of laughter.
"Said I so?" shouted he. "Thunder and Mars! I did not remember that I had ever said anything half so epigrammatic!"
Now from this it will be seen that the prisoner and I were already acquainted. We had, indeed, taken to each other from the first, and our mutual liking ripened so rapidly that before a week was gone by we had become the fastest friends in the world.
Our first meeting, as I have already said, took place upon the terrace. Our second, which befell on the afternoon of the same day when my father and I had held the conversation just recorded, happened on the stairs. Monsieur Maurice was coming up with his hat on; I was running down. He stopped, and held out both his hands.
"_Bonjour, petite_," he said, smiling. "Whither away so fast?"
The hoar frost was clinging to his coat, where he had brushed against the trees in his walk, and he looked pale and tired.
"I am going home," I replied.
"Home? Did you not tell me you lived in the Chateau?"
"So I do, Monsieur; but at the other side, up the other staircase. This is the side of the state-apartments."
Then, seeing in his face a look half of surprise, half of curiosity, I added:--
"I often go there in the afternoon, when it is too cold, or too late for out-of-doors. They are such beautiful rooms, and full of such beautiful pictures! Would you like to see them?"
He smiled, and shook his head.
"Thanks, petite," he said, "I am too cold now, and too tired; but you shall show them to me some other day. Meanwhile, suppose you come up and pay me that promised visit?"
I assented joyfully, and slipping my hand into his with the ready confidence of childhood, turned back at once and went with him to his rooms on the second floor.
Here, finding the fire in the salon nearly out, we went down upon our knees and blew the embers with our breath, and laughed so merrily over our work that by the time the new logs had caught, I was as much at home as if I had known Monsieur Maurice all my life.
"Tiens!" he said, taking me presently upon his knee and brushing the specks of white ash from my clothes and hair, "what a little Cinderella I have made of my guest! This must not happen again, Gretchen. Did you not tell me yesterday that your name was Gretchen?"
"Yes, but Gretchen, you know, is not my real name," said I, "my real name is Marguerite. Gretchen is only my pet name."
"Then you will always be Gretchen for me," said Monsieur Maurice, with the sweetest smile in the world.
There were books upon the table; there was a thing like a telescope on a brass stand in the window; there was a guitar lying on the couch. The fire, too, was burning brightly now, and the room altogether wore a cheerful air of habitation.
"It looks more like a lady's boudoir than a prison," said Monsieur Maurice, reading my thoughts. "I wonder whose rooms they were before I came here!"
"They were nobody's rooms," said I. "They were quite empty."
And then I told him where we had found the furniture,