t been well. We have been
saving the rabbits for her."

Randolph made the grand gesture that I so well remembered.

"My good people--if she would dine with us--?"

The old woman shook her head. She was not sure. She would see.

Perhaps she said pleasant things of us, perhaps mademoiselle was lonely.
But whatever the reason, mademoiselle consented to dine, coming out of
her seclusion, very thin and dark and small, but self-possessed.

I have often wondered what she thought, in those first moments of
meeting, of Randolph, as with a spoon for a sceptre, the manner of a
king, he presided over the feast. She spoke very good English, but
needed to have many things explained.

"Do gentlemen cook in your country?"

Randolph sketched life as he had known it on his grandfather's
plantation--negroes to do it all, except when gentlemen pleased.

She drew the mantle of her distaste about her. "Black men? I shouldn't
like it."

Well, I saw before the evening ended that Randolph had met his peer. For
every one of his aristocratic prejudices she matched him with a dozen.
And he loved her for it! At last here was a lady who would buckle on his
armor, watch his shield, tie her token on his sleeve!

He sat on the edge of the table in his favorite attitude--hunched-up
shoulders, folded arms. His hair was cut too short now for the dark
lock, but even without it I saw her glance at him now and then in a
puzzled fashion, as if she weighed some familiar memory.

But it was one of the peasants who voiced it--the old man carrying away
the remains of the stew muttered among the shadows to his wife:

"C'est Napoleon."

Mademoiselle caught her breath. "Oui, Gaston." Then to me, in English:
"Do you see it?"

"Yes. We called him that at school."

"Bonaparte?"

"Yes."

She was thin and dark no longer--illumined, the color staining her
cheeks. "Oh, if he were here--to save France!"

I protested. "An emperor against an emperor?"

"He was a great democrat--he loved the common people. For a little while
power spoiled him--but he loved the people. And the Bourbons did not
love them--Louis laughed at them--and lost his head. And Napoleon never
laughed. He loved France--if he had lived he would have saved us."

Out of the shadows the old woman spoke. "They say he will come again."

"Oui, Margot." Mademoiselle was standing, with her hand on her heart.
Randolph's eyes devoured her. He had taken no part in the conversation.
It was alm