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"And no one can ever prove anything contrary to that. No one except myself knows of of this doubt which you have stumbled upon. De Gemosac, Parson Marvin, Clubbe all of them are convinced that your father was the Dauphin." "And Miss Liston?" "Miriam Liston she also, of course. And I believe she knew it long before I told her." Barebone turned and looked at him squarely in the eyes.
Thus Loo Barebone turned his back on the ship which had been his home so long and set out into a new world; a new and unknown life, with the Marquis de Gemosac's ringing words buzzing in his brain yet; with the warm touch of Juliette's lips burning still upon his hand. "You are the grandson of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette! You are the Last Hope of France!"
"You can never tell," laughed Colville, but his laugh rather paled under Barebone's glance. "You can never tell." "Wise men do not attempt to blackmail kings." And Colville caught his breath. "Perhaps you are right," he admitted, after a pause. "You seem to be taking to the position very kindly, Barebone. But I do not mind, you know. It does not matter what we say to each other, eh?
It is some question of myself and my heritage in France, which I do not understand." "Is that so?" said Marie. "One can hardly believe it." "What do you mean?" "Oh, nothing," replied Marie, looking at his face with a close scrutiny, as if it were familiar to her. "And that is all that I had to tell you, Madame Marie," concluded Barebone.
He assured Juliette that their absence would be of short duration; that there was indeed no danger, but that he was acceding to the urgent persuasions of Barebone and Colville, who were perhaps unnecessarily alarmed who did not understand how affairs were conducted in France. He felt assured that law and order must prevail.
In that moment Juliette saw what is given to few to see and realise though sailors, perforce, lie down to sleep knowing it every night that under Heaven her life was wholly and solely in the two hands of a fellow-being. She knew it, and saw that Barebone knew it, though he never glanced at her.
They did not see so much of each other after Loo had spoken to the Marquis de Gemosac on this subject; for Barebone had to make visits to other parts of France. Once or twice Juliette herself went to stay with relatives. During these absences they did not write to each other. It was, in fact, impossible for Barebone to keep up any correspondence whatever.
"In fact," Colville added, after a silence, "the ball is at your feet, Barebone. There can be no looking back now." And again Barebone made no answer. It was a tacit understanding, then. For greater secrecy, Barebone walked on toward Ipswich alone, while Colville went into the inn to arouse his driver, whom he found slumbering in the wide chimney corner before a log fire.
He breakfasted at the old-fashioned inn in the heart of the town, where to this day the diligences deposit their passengers, and then he made his way to the quay, from whence he would take passage down the river. It was a cold morning, and there are few colder cities, south of Paris, than Bordeaux. Barebone hurried, his breath frozen on the fur of his collar. Suddenly he stopped.
You will have to play close and hold your hand, and follow any lead that is given you by de Gemosac, or by my humble self. You will find that easy enough, I know. For you have all a Frenchman's quickness to understand. And I suppose to put it plainly as between men of the world now that you have had time to think it over you are not afraid, Barebone?" "Oh no!" laughed Barebone. "I am not afraid."
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