Monsieur Maurice by Edwards, Amelia Ann Blanford, 1831-1892

"I shall see nothing of the kind, Monsieur Maurice," said my father. "I would not read a line of them for a marshal's baton. The King must make a gaoler of me, if it so pleases him; but not a spy. I shall seal up the papers and send them to Berlin."

"And I shall never see my manuscript again!" said Monsieur Maurice, with a sigh. "Well--it was my first attempt at authorship--perhaps, my last--and there is an end to it!"

My father ground some new and tremendous oath between his teeth.

"I hate to take it, Monsieur Maurice," he said. "'Tis an odious office."

"The office alone is yours, Colonel Bernhard," said the prisoner, with all a Frenchman's grace. "The odium rests with those who impose it on you."

Hereupon they exchanged formal salutations; and my father, having warned me not to be late for our mid-day meal, put the papers in his pocket, and left me to take my daily French lesson.

7

The Winter lingered long, but the Spring came at last in a burst of sunshine. The grey mists were rent away, as if by magic. The cold hues vanished from the landscape. The earth became all freshness; the air all warmth; the sky all light. The hedgerows caught a tint of tender green. The crocuses came up in a single night. The woods which till now had remained bare and brown, flushed suddenly, as if the coming Summer were imprisoned in their glowing buds. The birds began to try their little voices here and there. Never once, in all the years that have gone by since then, have I seen so startling a transition. It was as if the Prince in the dear old fairy tale had just kissed the Sleeping Beauty, and all that enchanted world had sprung into life at the meeting of their lips.

But the Spring, with its sudden beauty and brightness, seems to have no charm for Monsieur Maurice. He has permission to walk in the grounds twice a week--with a sentry at his heels; but of that permission he sternly refuses to take advantage. It was not wonderful that he preferred his fireside and his books, while the sleet, and snow, and bitter east winds lasted; but it seems too cruel that he should stay there now, cutting himself off from all the warmth and sweetness of the opening season. In vain I come to him with my hands full of dewy crocuses. In vain I hang about him, pleading for just a turn or two on the terrace where the sunshine falls hottest. He shakes his head, and is immoveable.

"No, petite," he says. "Not to-day."

"That is just what you said yesterday, Monsieur Maurice."

"And it is just what I shall say to-morrow, Gretchen, if you ask me again."

"But you won't stay in for ever, Monsieur Maurice!"

"Nay--'for ever' is a big word, little Gretchen."

"I don't believe you know how brightly the sun is shining!" I say coaxingly. "Just come to the window, and see."

Unwillingly enough, he lets himself be dragged across the room--unwillingly he looks out upon the glittering slopes and budding avenues beyond.