There was no moonlight, but the light from the windows streamed out to where the children stood, and shone upon the beautiful icicles on the branches above their heads.  For the tonnelle was a kind of arbour—­a long covered passage made by trees at each side, whose boughs had been trained to meet and interlace overhead.  And now, with their fairy tracery of snow and frost, the effect of the numberless little branches forming a sparkling roof was pretty and fanciful in the extreme.  Jeanne looked up as she was told.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s pretty.  If it was moonlight it would be prettier still, for then we could see right along the tonnelle to the end.”

“I don’t think that would be prettier,” said Hugh; “the dark at the end makes it look so nice—­like as if it was a fairy door into some queer place—­a magic cavern, or some place like that.”

“So it does,” said Jeanne.  “What nice fancies you have, Cheri!  But I wish you could see the tonnelle in summer.  It is pretty then, with all the leaves on.  But we must run quick, or else Marcelline will be calling us before we have got to the chicken-house.”

Off she set again, and Hugh after her, though not so fast, for Jeanne knew every step of the way, and poor Hugh had never been in the garden before.  It was not very far to go, however—­the chickens’ house was in a little courtyard just a few steps from the tonnelle, and guided by Jeanne’s voice in front as much as by the faint glimpses of her figure, dark against the snow, Hugh soon found himself safe beside her at the door of the chickens’ house.  Jeanne felt about till she got hold of the latch, which she lifted, and was going to push open the door and enter when Hugh stopped her.

“Jeanne,” he said, “it’s quite dark.  We can’t possibly see the chickens.  Hadn’t we better wait till to-morrow, and put Nibble in the cupboard, as Marcelline said, for to-night?”

“Oh no,” said Jeanne.  “It doesn’t matter a bit that it’s dark.”  She opened the door as she spoke, and gently pulled Hugh in after her.  “Look,” she went on, “there is a very, very little light from the kitchen window after all, when the door is opened.  Look, Cheri, up in that corner sleep Houpet and the others.  Put the cochon de Barbarie down here—­so—­that will do.  He will be quite safe here, and you feel it is not cold.”

“And are there no rats, or naughty dogs about—­nothing like that?” asked Hugh rather anxiously.

“Of course not,” replied Jeanne.  “Do you think I’d leave Houpet here if there were?  I’ll call to Houpet now, and tell him to be kind to the little cochon.”

“But Houpet’s asleep, and, besides, how would he know what you say?” objected Hugh.

For all answer Jeanne gave a sort of little whistle—­half whistle, half coo it was.  “Houpet, Houpet,” she called softly, “we’ve brought a little cochon de Barbarie to sleep in your house.  You must be very kind to him—­do you hear, Houpet dear? and in the morning you must fly down and peep in at his cage and tell him you’re very glad to see him.”