that we have nothing to do at present. I
wished only to tell you what concerns our young ladies' friendship with
the little stranger. Years went on, as they always do, whether they
leave the world happy or miserable, and the shadows I have told you of
grew darker and darker. Then, at last, the terrible days began--the
storm burst forth, our happy, peaceful home, with hundreds and thousands
of others, was broken up, and its kindly inhabitants forced to flee.
Mademoiselle Jeanne came hurrying up from her husband's home, where
things were even worse than with us, with her boys, to seek for shelter
and safety, which, alas! could not be given her here. For all had to
flee--my poor old master, frail as he was, his delicate wife, our young
ladies, and the boys--all fled together, and after facing perils such as
I trust none of their descendants will ever know, they reached a safe
refuge. And then they had to endure a new misery, for months and months
went by before they had any tidings of poor Mademoiselle Jeanne's
husband, your great-grandfather, my children, who, like all of his
name--a name you may well be proud of, my little Mademoiselle
Jeanne--stayed at the post of danger till every hope was passed. Then at
last, in disguise, he managed to escape, and reached this place in
safety, hoping here to find something to guide him as to where his wife
and children were. But he found nothing--the house was deserted, not a
servant or retainer of any kind left except myself, and what, alas!
could _I_ do? He was worn out and exhausted, poor man; he hid in the
house for a few days, creeping out at dusk in fear and trembling to buy
a loaf of bread, trusting to his disguise and to his not being well
known in the town. But he would have died, I believe, had he been long
left as he was, for distress of mind added to his other miseries, not
knowing anything as to what had become of your great-grandmother and his
children.

"She was a good wife," continued Dudu, after another little pause. "Our
Mademoiselle Jeanne, I mean. Just when her poor husband was losing heart
altogether, beginning to think they must all be dead, that there was
nothing left for him to do but to die too, she came to him. She had
travelled alone, quite alone, our delicate young lady--who in former
days had scarcely been allowed to set her little foot on the
pavement--from Switzerland to the old home, with a strange belief that
here if anywhere she should find him. And