"Very little, monsieur. I did very little and know very little. The
evening before Mademoiselle Madeleine left, she came to me in the
garden; she asked me if I would do her a favor. I would have done her a
thousand. Did I not owe her enough? Was it not she who watched beside my
bed when I had that terrible rheumatic fever two years ago? Did she not
pour out my medicine with her own white hands? Did she not talk to me
when I was racked with pain, until I thought the room was full of
heavenly music, and I forgot I was suffering? Did she not keep me from
cursing God when the pangs were so sharp that I felt I was tortured
beyond my strength? Did she not tell me why all anguish of soul or body
should be borne patiently? Was there, oh, was there _anything_ I would
not have done for Mademoiselle Madeleine? When she left the chateau, was
her loss greater to any one than it was to me? And she would not have
gone if she could have staid any longer. I was sure of _that_. When she
said she must go, I knew she _must_, and I never even dared to pray her
to remain."

It was seldom that Baptiste spoke so much, for he was taciturn by
nature; but the emotion, forcibly suppressed for so many days, once
breaking bondage, burst forth into a torrent of words.

"You did well, Baptiste,--good, faithful old man! Mademoiselle Madeleine
needed a friend; and I thank Heaven she had one like you. Do not think
we blame you; only tell us all you know. She came to you the evening
before she left: what favor did she ask?"

"Mademoiselle Madeleine only asked, monsieur, that I would come to her
room when the house was all quiet, that night, and carry down her trunk
and place it in the _chalet_. I could not help saying, 'Oh,
Mademoiselle Madeleine, are you going to leave us?' She answered, 'I
_cannot_ stay, Baptiste. I am _compelled_ to go. You are the only person
here who is aware of my intention. When I am gone do not give any
information concerning me that you can possibly, and without uttering a
falsehood, avoid. It will be better that no one should know I had your
aid.' Those were her exact words, monsieur."

"Go on,--go on!" urged Maurice, as the narrator paused.

"When the house was all quiet, I put off my shoes and stole softly to
Mademoiselle Madeleine's room. She opened the door, and, without
speaking, pointed to the little trunk. Old and weak as I am, I had no
trouble in carrying it. It was light enough. It could not have held
much."