“You might at least leave me alone now,” said Josie.
He bowed. “I can appreciate that too, Mademoiselle.”
The trains had moved so far apart now that she could see nothing but a small blot in the distance and her chance of seeing him again was as small as that. She stood desolately looking at the torn rosettes in the soup dish of felt. All her experiences with Tib had been like that.
V
Dr. Pilgrim, Grand Maitre de I’Ordre de l’Hygiene Publique, assistant to the great Dr. Evans, dental surgeon to the court and to various Bourbons, Cecils, Churchills, Vanderbilts, Hapsburgs, Chambruns and Astors, had just received a gift of flowers. It had been sent him by a gardener at the Tuileries whom he had treated for nothing—but they did not touch him. He did his charity work faithfully but coldly and he was much more interested in the new chair he and Dr. Evans had just invented. He was glad the war was over even though the French had lost. Practice would be better now. He heard the doorbell ring once and again. The third time he went out into the hall to see why it wasn’t answered—and ran into Josie rushing excitedly up the stairs.
“Why isn’t the door attended to?” he inquired but she interrupted him.
“Oh bother the doorbell. Let me tell you who just came in and is waiting downstairs.”
“I don’t care,” said Dr. Pilgrim. “The doorbell must be answered.”
As a matter of fact it was being answered at just that moment. The young man waiting there was rather surprised by the words of the woman who let him in.
“You are from Dr. Evans?”
“No, ma’am. I represent the Richmond Times-Dispatch, the Danville News and the Lynchburg Courier.”
“How did you know I was here?” she asked.
“I don’t understand,” said Tib.
“Oh,” said the lady nervously. “Well, I guess you might as well come in.”
As they came under the gas light of the waiting room she said:
“Are you in pain?”
“No,” he said.
She seemed somewhat agitated and as if she felt she must apologize for it.
“I haven’t waited in a doctor’s office since I was very young. It makes me feel rather strange.”
“Are you in pain?” he asked her in turn.
The woman nodded.
“Yes,” she said, “I am in pain—the pain of insult and degradation.”
Tib looked at her curiously.
“I can understand that feeling,” he said.
“You are an American,” the woman remarked. “My father was an American citizen, though he was born in Scotland.”
“I am not an American,” denied Tib. “I am a Virginian. Those two things will never mean the same again in my lifetime.”
The woman sighed.
“Alas, I am from nowhere. I have been trying very hard for thirty years to be a Frenchwoman but now I know that I am of no races.
Tib nodded. “That’s like me—I am a citizen of nowhere, part of a lost cause, broken and beaten with it.”
The door opened and Josie Pilgrim came into the room and walked swiftly up to the woman.
“Your Majesty, Doctor Evans’ horses will be here in five minutes.”
“I have not minded waiting,” said the Empress. “I have been talking with this young American.”
Josie cast a surprised glance at Tib, bowed, and said to the Empress, “Do you want to come up to my room?”
“I should not like to move. I am sitting on my jewel case.”
Tib had seen the crowd streaming past the Tuileries half an hour before, and had wondered fleetingly about the Empress and the court, whether the fair Spaniard of tortuous destiny would be made into a new Marie Antoinette. Now he looked at the faded lady in the black hat and knew without question that this was the Empress.
“Can I be of any service?” he asked.
“No thank you,” said Josie hastily. “My brother and Dr. Evans are taking care of everything.”
“But he can be of service. With three Americans I shall be even safer than with two. If he rides with us I shall esteem it a great favor.”
“I am mounted,” said Tib.
“All the better,” said the Empress. “You will be our escort.”
… Ten minutes later the little party assembled at the stables. From the streets they could hear many voices, snatches of Beranger songs, imprecations against the Emperor, the Empress, and the court, and a continual scuffle of steps upon cobble-stones, moving toward fire and catastrophe. Dr. Evans, tense and determined, stood between the Empress and the red glare of the torches from the street, as if to shut out all he could of menace and hatred abroad.
“So you’re riding with us,” he said to Tib. “Remember, we have agreed to pretend that this is an insane woman whom we are taking to Trouville.”
“I insane!” exclaimed the Empress, “I begin to think I am. Let this young Virginian ride inside with us and we can talk about being exiles. The good Dr. Pilgrim will be glad to take his horse and play postilion for the evening. Is that not so, Dr. Pilgrim?”
Dr. Pilgrim glared at Tib.
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Are we ready?” asked Dr. Evans.
The cortege was starting out through the wild avenues that led to the Porte Maillot. They were shouted at several times but no attempt was made to stop the carriage; out in the suburbs chalk white windows looked down indifferently at them in sleeping roads; toward midnight Josie’s eyes closed drowsily and Tib could at last watch her just as he wanted to watch her, while the last of the French Sovereigns drove out of the Ile-de-France.
In the Inn des Mariniers at Trouville a consultation was held as to the next step. A yacht rode at anchor in the harbor and they ascertained that it flew the Union Jack and belonged to Sir John Burgoyne. The Empress was persuaded to lie down under Dr. Evans’ care and Tib and Dr. Pilgrim started along the water-front making discreet inquiries for the use of a dinghy. They had no reason to think that their departure from Paris had been traced. Only a single episode just now, a curious look that a waiter had thrown at the Empress, worried them. But when they had secured the boat and Josie appeared panting beside them both men had a moment of apprehension.
“What is it?”
“Dr. Evans wants you back at the inn to talk to that waiter. The man is hanging around the hall outside the Empress’s room and when I spoke to him he just laughed and pretended he couldn’t understand my French.”
“I’ll go back,” said Tib.
“No, it’s better for me to go,” said Dr. Pilgrim. “I’ve only once been in a rowboat and I should not care to attempt it alone.”
He started briskly back and then noticing that Josie was not with him turned and saw her getting into the dinghy with Tib.
“It’s all right,” she called, “I’ve rowed a lot and two of us are better than one.”
Dr. Pilgrim continued on to the inn.
It was a gorgeous morning and the glittering harbor made Josie forget the gloomy events of the night before and the anxious errand on which they were bent. Then they crossed a dark line of water across the harbor and suddenly were in rough water and a wind from the outside sea. The little dinghy progressed more slowly. The handles of the oars were large and suddenly noticing that Tib’s thumbless hands were clumsy in the rougher water she said:
“I’m going to take this pair of oars and help so we can make quicker time.”
“No,” he insisted, “I’d rather you wouldn’t.”
But she had already taken her place on the stern thwart and was slipping the oars into the locks.
“All right,” he said, “You have to set the stroke.”
In a moment she was sitting back in his arms with one of the oars floating away to sea.
“Oh I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “I really can row.”
“It’s all right with me,” he said.
“I want to try again,” Josie insisted. “Your hands the way they are—” She stopped herself.
“My hands are all right,” said Tib. “I think I can take care of us both.”
“I know you can,” said Josie impulsively. She sat humbly in the stern until they came alongside the shining yacht and a dignified, formidable British sailor spoke to them from the polished rail.
“Who is it wishes to see Sir John Burgoyne?” he inquired.
“He wouldn’t know me,” said Tib.
“I am sorry, sir, but Sir John is having his kippers and can’t be disturbed until later in the forenoon.”
“It’s all right,” said Josie, “I’m his niece.”
The sailor looked at her suspiciously. At this point Sir John Burgoyne appeared upon the deck.
“This lady says she’s your niece, sir,” said the sailor.
The old captain came to the rail.
“Now I don’t happen to have a niece,” he remarked.
Josie spoke to him quickly in French. “The Empress Eugenie is in Trouville. She is trying to get to England.”
In a few minutes they had convinced him of the truth of their story; he left his kippered herring and toast to cool and discussed plans with them. After it was decided that the Empress had best not come aboard until twilight he beckoned to his boatswain.
“Pipe all hands on deck.”
Following the whistle two dozen men formed themselves into attendant statues on three sides of a square, and after a gruff “All present, sir” there was no sound on board.
“I don’t want any of you men to go ashore today. The Empress of the French people is coming on board this evening. I count on every one of you to give no indication or signal as to why you were kept on board. Dismiss.”
… It was dark when oars again disturbed the water beside the
