The Nameless Castle | Page 5

companion, he added in a lower tone: "What
are we to do with her?"
"We can't leave her here; that would be inhuman," was the reply, in the
same cautious tone.
"But we can't take her in; it would be a great risk."
"What is there to fear from an innocent prattler who cannot even
remember her mother's name?"

"We might take her to the conciergerie," suggested the elder gentleman.
"I think we had better not disturb the police when 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,