The Nameless Castle | Page 5

they are asleep," in a significant tone responded his companion.
"That is true; but we can't take the child to our apartments. You know that we--"
"I have an idea!" suddenly interposed the young man. "This innocent child has been placed in our way by Providence; by aiding her we may accomplish more easily the task we have undertaken."
"I understand," assented the elder; "we can accomplish two good deeds at one and the same time. Allow me to go up-stairs first; while you are locking the door I will arrange matters up there so that you may bring this poor little half-frozen creature directly with you." Then, to the child: "Don't be afraid, little countess; nothing shall harm you. To-morrow morning perhaps you will remember your mama's name, or else she will send some one in search of you."
He opened the door, and ran hastily up the worn staircase.
When the young man, with the little girl in his arms, reached the door at the head of the stairs, his companion met him, and, with a meaning glance, announced that everything was ready for the reception of their small guest. They entered a dingy anteroom, which led, through heavily curved antique sliding-doors, into a vaulted saloon hung with faded tapestry.
Here the child exhibited the first signs of alarm. "Are you going to kill me?" she cried out in terror.
The old gentleman laughed merrily, and said:
"Why, surely you don't take us to be croquemitaines who devour little children; do you?"
"Have you got a little girl of your own?" queried the little one, suddenly.
"No, my dear," replied the old gentleman, visibly affected by the question. "I have no wife; therefore I cannot have a little girl."
"But my mama has no husband, and she 's got me," prattled the child.
"That is different, my dear. But if I have not got a little girl, I know very well what to do for one."
As he spoke he drew off the child's wet slippers and stockings, rubbed her feet with a flannel cloth, then laid her on the bed which stood in the alcove.
"Why, how warm this bed is!" cried the child; "just as if some one had been sleeping here."
The old man's face betrayed some confusion as he responded:
"Might I not have warmed it with a warming-pan?"
"But where did you get hot coals?"
"Well, well, what an inquisitive little creature it is!" muttered the old man. Then, aloud: "My dear, don't you say your prayers before going to sleep?"
"No, indeed! Mama says we shall have plenty of time for that when we grow old."
"An enlightened woman, truly! Well, I dare say, my little maid, your convictions will not prevent you from drinking a cup of egg-punch, and partaking of a bit of pasty or a small biscuit?"
At mention of these dainties the child's countenance brightened; and while she was eating the repast with evident relish, the younger man rummaged from somewhere a large, beautifully dressed doll. All thought of fear now vanished from the small guest's mind. She clasped the toy in her arms, and, having finished her light meal, began to sing a lullaby, to which she very soon fell asleep herself.
"She is sleeping soundly," whispered the elder man, softly drawing together the faded damask bed-curtains, and walking on tiptoe back to the fireplace, where his companion had fanned the fire into a fresh blaze.
"It is high time," was the low and rather impatient response. "We can't stop here much longer. Do you know what has happened to the duke?"
"Yes, I know. He has been sentenced to death. To-morrow he will be executed. What have you discovered?"
"A fox on the trail of a lion!" harshly replied the young man. "He who aroused so many hopes is, after all, nothing more than an impostor--Leon Maria Hervagault, the son of a tailor at St. Leu. The true dauphin, the son of Louis XVI., really died a natural death, after he had served a three years' apprenticeship as shoemaker under Master Simho; and in order that a later generation might not be able to secure his ashes, he was buried in quick-lime in the Chapel of St. Margarethe."
"They were not so scrupulous concerning monsieur,"[1] observed the old man, restlessly pacing the floor. "I received a letter from my agent to-day; he writes that monsieur was secretly shot at Dillingen."
[Footnote 1: Count de Provence, afterward Louis XVIII.]
"What! He, too? Then--"
"Hush!" cautiously interposed the elder man. "That child might not be asleep."
"And if she were awake, what could she understand?"
"True; but we must be cautious." He ceased his restless promenade, and came close to the young man's side. "Everything is at an end here," he added in a lower tone. "We must remove our treasure to a more secure hiding-place--this very night, indeed, if it be possible."
"It is possible," assented his companion. "The