something to guide him as to where his wife and children were.  But he found nothing—­the house was deserted, not a servant or retainer of any kind left except myself, and what, alas! could I do?  He was worn out and exhausted, poor man; he hid in the house for a few days, creeping out at dusk in fear and trembling to buy a loaf of bread, trusting to his disguise and to his not being well known in the town.  But he would have died, I believe, had he been long left as he was, for distress of mind added to his other miseries, not knowing anything as to what had become of your great-grandmother and his children.

“She was a good wife,” continued Dudu, after another little pause.  “Our Mademoiselle Jeanne, I mean.  Just when her poor husband was losing heart altogether, beginning to think they must all be dead, that there was nothing left for him to do but to die too, she came to him.  She had travelled alone, quite alone, our delicate young lady—­who in former days had scarcely been allowed to set her little foot on the pavement—­from Switzerland to the old home, with a strange belief that here if anywhere she should find him.  And she was rewarded.  The worst of the terrible days were now past, but still disguise was necessary, and it was in the dress of one of her own peasants—­the dress in which she had fled—­that Mademoiselle Jeanne returned.  But he knew her—­through all disguises he would have known her—­and she him.  And the first evening they were together in the bare, deserted house, even with all the terrors behind them, the perils before them, the husband and wife were happy.”

Dudu paused again.  The children, too interested to speak, listened eagerly.

“Go on, dear Dudu,” whispered Jeanne at last, softly.

“How were they to get away to safety?  That was the question,” continued Dudu.  “They dared not stay long where they were; yet they dared not go.  Monsieur was far too feeble to stand much fatigue, and the two of them journeying together might attract notice.

“‘If we could get to the sea,’ said Mademoiselle Jeanne—­Madame I should call her, but it never comes naturally—­there we might find a ship to take us to England or Holland, and thence find our way to our dear ones again.’

“But Monsieur shook his head.  ‘Impossible,’ he said.  ’I have not the strength for even the four leagues’ walk to the sea, and finding a ship that would take us is a mere chance.  We have almost no money.  Here at least we have shelter, and still some sous for bread.  Jeanne, my beloved, you must make up your mind to leave me again—­alone and unhindered you might find your way back in safety.’

“‘I will never leave you,’ said Jeanne.  ’We will die together, if it must be so.  The boys are safe—­my father and mother and Eliane will care for them.  I will never leave you.’