Father Pierre was so glad to see the two de Cygnes. He had wondered what had happened to them. Of all the loyal Catholics who came to his little chapel, these two were his favorites.

He had gone to their house a couple of months ago, and the housekeeper had told him that they were away in the country.

“I am so delighted to see you,” he cried. “But what terrible events are happening all around us. Have you heard about the Carmelites today?”

They hadn’t. And he was just about to inform them when a skinny young girl with a limp came in. Moving to a bench only feet away, she sat down, and seemed about to pray.

Father Pierre looked at her. No doubt she was harmless, but in the awful world in which they were living now, one had to be careful. He moved to her side.

“Are you all right, my child?”

“Yes, Father. I was passing, and I came in here to pray.”

“Ah.” He smiled. “It is a house of God. Do you pray often?”

“Each day. I pray that my leg may get better.”

“And what caused you to come into this chapel?”

“I cannot say.”

“Did you know that this chapel was dedicated to Saint-Gilles?” As she looked uncertain, he continued. “Saint-Gilles, my child, is the patron saint of cripples. You have chosen well to pray here.”

He turned back to the de Cygnes, and they moved a few feet away.

“Did you hear?” he murmured to them. “The child was passing, and did not know that this is the chapel of Saint-Gilles, nor that he is the patron saint of cripples. Voilà. Even in such times as these, the providence of God is manifested. Perhaps the saint himself summoned this child to his church.” But now he turned to the matter in hand. “Oh, my dears,” Father Pierre began, “what terrible news I must share with you.”

Claudie listened carefully. The priest was very upset. Sixteen women from a Carmelite religious house had just been executed today, near the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. They had refused to obey the Clergy Law. They had declared that they would sooner be martyred for the faith.

“They went to the guillotine chanting,” the old priest declared. “They were martyred every one.”

“Martyrs indeed,” said the man, and the young lady agreed with him. And they both said it was a disgrace, and that it should not have been done.

Then they asked the priest to come home with them for a little while. The lady said the old man needed a hot drink. “Laced with brandy,” said the young man.

Claudie went back to where her mother was waiting, and told her exactly what she had heard.

“Follow them, Claudie,” said her mother. “I’ll keep a little way behind you. Let’s find out where they live.”

Following them was easy. The old priest couldn’t walk very fast. The place they went into was a mansion with a courtyard in front of it, in the Saint-Germain quarter. A regular aristocrat’s palace, her mother said.