The Secret Tomb by Maurice Leblanc (i like reading .txt) 📕

in luxury!⁠ ⁠… Ah, to think of all I’d do for you, if you’d let me!”

She raised her head, looked into his eyes, and said: “Would you really do anything for me?”

“Anything, Dorothy.”

“Well, then, be honest, Saint-Quentin.”

They set out again; and the young girl continued:

“Be honest, Saint-Quentin. That’s all I ask of you. You and the other boys of the caravan, I’ve adopted you because, like me, you’re war-orphans, and for the last two years we have wandered together along the high roads, happy rather than miserable, getting our fun, and on the whole, eating when we’re hungry. But we must come to an understanding. I only like what is clean and straight and as clear as a ray of sunlight. Are you like me? This is the third time you’ve stolen to give me pleasure. Is this the last time? If it is, I pardon it. If it isn’t, it’s ‘goodbye.’ ”

She spoke very seriously, emphasizing each phrase by a toss of the head which made the two wings of her hair flap.

Overwhelmed, Saint-Quentin said imploringly:

“Don’t you want to have anything more to do with me?”

“Yes. But swear you won’t do it again.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“Then we won’t say anything more about it. I feel that you mean what you say. Take back these jewels. You can hide them in the big basket under the caravan. Next week you will send them back by post. It’s the Château de Chagny, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and I saw the lady’s name on one of her bandboxes. She’s the Comtesse de Chagny.”

They went on hand in hand. Twice they hid themselves to avoid meeting peasants, and at last, after several detours, they reached the neighborhood of the caravan.

“Listen,” said Saint-Quentin, pausing to listen himself. “Yes. That’s what it is⁠—Castor and Pollux fighting as usual, the rascals!”

He dashed towards the sound.

“Saint-Quentin!” cried the young girl. “I forbid you to hit them!”

“You hit them often enough!”

“Yes. But they like me to hit them.”

At the approach of Saint-Quentin, the two boys, who were fighting a duel with wooden swords, turned from one another to face the common enemy, howling:

“Dorothy! Mummy Dorothy! Stop Saint-Quentin! He’s a beast! Help!”

There followed a distribution of cuffs, bursts of laughter, and hugs.

“Dorothy, it’s my turn to be hugged!”

“Dorothy, it’s my turn to be smacked!”

But the young girl said in a scolding voice:

“And the Captain? I’m sure you’ve gone and woke him up!”

“The Captain? He’s sleeping like a sapper,” declared Pollux. “Just listen to his snoring!”

By the side of the road the two urchins had lit a fire of wood. The pot, suspended from an iron tripod, was boiling. The four of them ate a steaming thick soup, bread and cheese, and drank a cup of coffee.

Dorothy did not budge from her stool. Her three companions would not have permitted it. It was rather which of the three should rise to serve her, all of them attentive to her wants, eager, jealous of one another, even aggressive towards one another. The battles of Castor and Pollux were always started by the fact that she had shown favor to one or the other. The two urchins, stout and chubby, dressed alike in pants, a shirt, and jacket, when one least expected it and for all that they were as fond of one another as brothers, fell upon one another with ferocious violence, because the young girl had spoken too kindly to one, or delighted the other with a too affectionate look.

As for Saint-Quentin, he cordially detested them. When Dorothy fondled them, he could have cheerfully wrung their necks. Never would she hug him. He had to content himself with good comradeship, trusting and affectionate, which only showed itself in a friendly handshake or a pleasant smile. The stripling delighted in them as the only reward which a poor devil like him could possibly deserve. Saint-Quentin was one of those who love with selfless devotion.

“The arithmetic lesson now,” was Dorothy’s order. “And you, Saint-Quentin, go to sleep for an hour on the box.”

Castor brought his arithmetic. Pollux displayed his copybook. The arithmetic lesson was followed by a lecture delivered by Dorothy on the Merovingian kings, then by a lecture on astronomy.

The two children listened with almost impassioned attention; and Saint-Quentin on the box took good care not to go to sleep. In teaching, Dorothy gave full play to her lively fancy in a fashion which diverted her pupils and never allowed them to grow weary. She had an air of learning herself whatever she chanced to be teaching. And her discourse, delivered in a very gentle voice, revealed a considerable knowledge and understanding and the suppleness of a practical intelligence.

At ten o’clock the young girl gave the order to harness the horse. The journey to the next town was a long one; and they had to arrive in time to secure the best place in front of the town-hall.

“And the Captain? He hasn’t had breakfast!” cried Castor.

“All the better,” said she. “The Captain always eats too much. It will give his stomach a rest. Besides if anyone wakes him he’s always in a frightful temper. Let him sleep on.”

They set out. The caravan moved along at the gentle pace of One-eyed Magpie, a lean old mare, but still strong and willing. They called her “One-eyed Magpie” because she had a piebald coat and had lost an eye. Heavy, perched on two high wheels, rocking, jingling like old iron, loaded with boxes, pots and pans, steps, barrels, and ropes, the caravan had recently been repainted. On both sides it bore the pompous inscription, “Dorothy’s Circus, Manager’s Carriage,” which led one to believe that a file of wagons and vehicles was following at some distance with the staff, the properties, the baggage, and the wild beasts.

Saint-Quentin, whip in hand, walked at the head of the caravan. Dorothy, with the two small boys at her side, gathered flowers from the banks, sang choruses of marching songs with them, or told them stories. But at the end of half an