“I do understand you, Philip,” said John cheerfully, “but you mustn’t count a city yours until you’ve taken it.  The Germans are near, but they’re not here.  Now, lead on.  It’s not like you to despair!”

Lannes shook himself, as if he had laid violent hands upon his own body, and his face cleared.

“That was the last time, John,” he said.  “I made that promise before, but I keep it this time.  You won’t see me gloomy again.  Henceforward it’s hope only.  Now, we must hurry.  My mother and Julie will be growing anxious, for we are overdue.”

They crossed the Seine by one of the beautiful stone bridges and entered a region of narrow and crooked streets, which John thought must be a part of old Paris.  In an American city it would necessarily have been a quarter of the poor, but John knew that here wealth and distinction were often hidden behind these modest doors.

He began to feel very curious about Lannes’ family, but he was careful to ask no questions.  He knew that the young Frenchman was showing great trust and faith in him by taking him into his home.  They stopped presently before a door, and Lannes rang a bell.  The door was opened cautiously in a few moments, and a great head surmounted by thick, gray hair was thrust out.  A powerful neck and a pair of immense shoulders followed the head.  Sharp eyes under heavy lashes peered forth, but in an instant, when the man saw who was before him, he threw open the door and said: 

“Welcome, Monsieur.”

John had no doubt that this was the Antoine Picard of whom Lannes had spoken, and he knew at the first glance that he beheld a real man.  Many people have the idea that all Frenchmen are little, but John knew better.

Antoine Picard was a giant, much over six feet, and with the limbs and chest of a piano-mover.  He was about sixty, but age evidently had made no impression upon his strength.  John judged from his fair complexion that he was from Normandy.  “Here,” young Scott said to himself, “is one of those devoted European family servants of whom I’ve heard so often.”

He regarded the man with interest, and Picard, in return, measured and weighed him with a lightning glance.

Lannes laughed.

“It’s all right, Antoine,” he said.  “He’s the young man from that far barbarian country called America, who escaped from Germany with me, only he’s no barbarian, but a highly civilized being who not only likes France, but who fights for her.  John, this is Antoine Picard, who rules and protects this house.”

John held out his hand, American fashion, and it was engulfed in the mighty grasp of the Norseman, as he always thought of him afterward.

“Madame, your mother, and Mademoiselle, your sister, have been anxious,” said Picard.

“We were delayed,” said Lannes.

They stepped into a narrow hall, and Picard shut the door behind them, shooting into place a heavy bolt which sank into its socket with a click like the closing of the entrance to a fortress.  In truth, the whole aspect of the house reminded John of a stronghold.  The narrow hall was floored with stone, the walls were stone and the light was dim.  Lannes divined John’s thoughts.