The count asked me to tell of our journey, and I told the story with all the spirit I could put into my words.  I am happy to say it did seem to hit the mark, for I was no sooner done with our adventure than the ladies began to clap their hands, and the Misses de Lambert had much delight in their faces when the baroness retold my story in French.

Dinner over, the count invited me to the smoking-room, where, in a corner by ourselves, I had some talk with him.  He told me of his father—­that he had been a friend of Franklin, that he had given a ship and a cargo of gunpowder to our navy in ’76.  Like others I had met under his roof, the count had seen the coming of the Reign of Terror in France, and had fled with his great fortune.  He had invested much of it there in the wild country.  He loved America, and had given freely to equip the army for war.  He was, therefore, a man of much influence in the campaign of the North, and no doubt those in authority there were instructed, while the war was on, to take special care of his property.

“And will you please tell me,” I said at length, “who are the Misses de Lambert?”

“Daughters of a friend in Paris,” said the count.  “He is a great physician.  He wishes not for them to marry until they are twenty-one.  Mon Dieu! it was a matter of some difficulty.  They were beautiful.”

“Very beautiful!” I echoed.

“They were admired,” he went on.  “The young men they began to make trouble.  My friend he send them here, with the baroness, to study—­to finish their education.  It is healthy, it is quiet, and—­well, there are no young gentlemen.  They go to bed early; they are up at daylight; they have the horse; they have boats; they amuse themselves ver’ much.  But they are impatient; they long for Paris—­the salon, the theatre, the opera.  They are like prisoners:  they cannot make themselves to be contented.  The baroness she has her villa on a lake back in the woods, and, mon ame! it is beautiful there—­so still, so cool, so delightful!  At present they have a great fear of the British.  They lie awake; they listen; they expect to be carried off; they hear a sound in the night, and, mon Dieu! it is the soldiers coming.”

The count laughed, lifting his shoulders with a gesture of both hands.  Then he puffed thoughtfully at his cigarette.

“Indeed,” he went on presently, “I think the invasion is not far away.  They tell me the woods in the north are alive with British cavalry.  I am not able to tell how many, but, Dieu! it is enough.  The army should inform itself immediately.  I think it is better that you penetrate to the river to-morrow, if you are not afraid, to see what is between, and to return by the woods.  I shall trouble you to take a letter to the General Brown.  It will be ready at any hour.”

“At six?” I inquired.

“At six, certainly, if you desire to start then,” he replied.