Our
second, which befell on the afternoon of the same day when my father and I
had held the conversation just recorded, happened on the stairs. Monsieur
Maurice was coming up with his hat on; I was running down. He stopped, and
held out both his hands.
"_Bonjour, petite_," he said, smiling. "Whither away so fast?"
The hoar frost was clinging to his coat, where he had brushed against the
trees in his walk, and he looked pale and tired.
"I am going home," I replied.
"Home? Did you not tell me you lived in the Chateau?"
"So I do, Monsieur; but at the other side, up the other staircase. This is
the side of the state-apartments."
Then, seeing in his face a look half of surprise, half of curiosity, I
added:--
"I often go there in the afternoon, when it is too cold, or too late for
out-of-doors. They are such beautiful rooms, and full of such beautiful
pictures! Would you like to see them?"
He smiled, and shook his head.
"Thanks, petite," he said, "I am too cold now, and too tired; but you shall
show them to me some other day. Meanwhile, suppose you come up and pay me
that promised visit?"
I assented joyfully, and slipping my hand into his with the ready
confidence of childhood, turned back at once and went with him to his rooms
on the second floor.
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