Yet underneath all her gayety an occasional care did come to trouble the Countess of Clothilde. There was her need of money; for if one lives at the court of a king where all is gold and glitter, one must have fine clothes and glitter too. She had to keep sending word to her place in the country, which she never even visited herself, to tell her peasants that they must work harder and send her more money. And, too she had Pierre to bring up without help from his father, since his father had died when the baby was a few days old. Of course she had an old nurse who really took all the care of him, and now that he was no longer a baby, she had had him brought from the château in the country to the palace, and with other children of the court he had lessons under an old tutor. He was a dear though mischievous little fellow who did not always do what was expected of him.

One afternoon the Countess Clothilde was called from her merrymaking in the garden with the other lords and ladies by the old nurse, who was wringing her hands and sobbing. Pierre was lost. All day old Nanna and the grooms had been searching for him, but he was nowhere to be found. That was bad news. The Countess Clothilde was alarmed. Yet she could do little to help, for she had to go to be dressed in her brocade and jewels ready for the court ball that night. The king was just back from his hunting and everyone was summoned. She went to the ball and to hide her trouble put on her best mask of gayety, but soon she did not need to pretend. Her little Pierre was the talk of the evening. Monsieur le Marquis de Vernous, who had been with the king on his hunt, came up to her, a fine figure with his powdered hair and satin clothes. "Look out, Madame la Comtesse," he said, "that baby of yours, gare, but he has spirit! He is an enfant terrible. Some day you will really lose him."

"My boy! Pierre? You've seen him! Tell me, is he safe?"

"Safe and deserves a medal for gallantry, Madame. Seldom in battle have I seen more fearless conduct." He went on to tell her that when they were riding home from the hunt, in a field far from the palace he saw something moving and supposed it to be a fawn. The hunting had been poor, and on the chance he let loose his dogs, but happily spurred on his horse after them. "And there, Madame, if you please," he said, "there in the midst of the pack, jumping and barking around him, I found your Pierre. He was holding them off, a dauntless chevalier indeed, but I, I confess it, Madame, I was frightened. Yet he is safe, without harm. I brought him back myself in front of me on my horse."

This is one of a series of tapestries of the Hunts of the King

When the Countess herself took the time to question and scold her small son, she found him happy and unrepentant. "I had to go to see the pretty horses all together," he cried. "In the stables they stand too still, but out there, oh, how they danced and pranced! It was so pretty, mother. I want to go to hunt."

After that, Pierre was a great favorite. The gentlemen talked of his courage, and the ladies all spoiled him; so that whenever he dared he ran away from nurse and lessons into the gardens where the lovely ladies were. He was a real child of the court, in love with every gay and pretty thing. At last, though he was barely ten years old, the Countess Clothilde had to send him away to school. He went up to Paris to the very school which the young Marquis de Lafayette had just left. There he lived in a dreary little room not much better than a cell, with no window and only an opening in the door to let in the air. He learned some Latin and mathematics, but the things he really liked were the lessons in fencing and horsemanship, in manners and all the etiquette of the court,—how to make his bow, how to pick up a lady's fan, how to be a perfect courtier. As the years went by and a new Louis and his queen, Marie Antoinette, came to reign at Versailles, he had mastered these things so well that all the ladies declared he would be a great favorite with her majesty, who more than ever loved everything elegant and pretty.

So when the boys at school talked together of what they would do when they were men, Pierre naturally said, "I shall be a gentleman-in-waiting at the court." But Guillaume, one of the older boys, shook his head. "When we are men, it well may be that there will be neither court nor king." Neither court nor king! The boys howled him down and threatened to mob him. But Guillaume went on, "Can't any of you, even you spoiled darlings here, feel what is in the air? Did you suppose all the world was a picnic like Versailles? Have you never heard of the peasants who slave and starve in the country while the court blows soap-bubbles? How long do you think they'll keep it up? A month's work and it buys my lady a pretty fan! A fan for her and no food for them!"

"What nonsense you talk, Guillaume," said Pierre, "I haven't been in the country, to be sure, since I was a baby, but I've seen Boucher's pictures, and the peasants are as jolly as anybody."

"Pictures! He's seen Boucher's pictures!" jeered Guillaume. "And he thinks they're the real thing! Get along down to the country, you fellows; it's time you did, though your dainty souls will have a shock. Magic words are running around here—liberté et egalité."

"Liberty and equality! And what might they mean?" Pierre and the other boys asked in chorus as they shrugged their shoulders scornfully.

"Mean? They mean fewer joujous for my lady and more bread for the farmer. We'll all be saying them soon, unless we want to hang for it."

"Not I," sang out Pierre. "No ugly old world like that for me! Coarse black bread instead of my lady's pretty little fan! Bah!"

"Look out, then!" Guillaume retorted. "Liberté et egalité!  You're likely to hear them any minute."

"Liberty and equality!" The very next day Pierre heard them. He had stolen away from school to buy oranges of his favorite vender on the street. She kept her golden fruit well piled and wore bright colors herself and her voice rang out in jolly fashion as she cried her wares: "Oranges, oranges! Come buy!" So Pierre always went to her, and she like everyone else was usually ready to pet him. But today she was full of new talk. The king was making one of his rare visits to Paris and the streets were decorated with fine lords on horseback and bright ladies peering out daintily from their sedan chairs, as strong porters carried them clear of the dirt and tumult.

Photograph furnished by the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

"Aye," said the orange-woman, with a toss of her head, "my lady rides today. But liberté", "tomorrow,—liberté") ?> et egalité. Do you hear that, my boy? Learn quickly to say it, too,—for soon things will change. For by what right has she her fine clothes and jeweled chains, and I—nothing? Tell me, then," she defied Pierre.

It was Guillaume's talk over again, and Pierre though only fourteen was angry. A boy brought up at court could not put up with such talk. "By what right?" he cried. "Because they belong to her, of course,—like sunshine to a flower, like their gold skins to these oranges of yours. She is herself sweet and pretty! Eh bien, she shall have sweet and pretty things."

"Ah, shall she?" scoffed the orange-vender, and Pierre lost his temper. "Would you, then," he cried "have all the world ugly like yourself?"

Then something happened. Whether it was accident or whether the orange-woman did it, Pierre never knew. A sedan chair came close beside them, and at the moment a pretty lady in her high-feathered headdress and gleaming jewels leaned out of her window to wave her fan toward a gentleman behind her. Suddenly her fan fell into the street. Quick as a thought Pierre darted out to pick it up. But a workman standing by was in his way and in his hurry Pierre ran head on into him. It made the man angry, and he gave Pierre a fierce blow on the head, but Pierre somehow rallied, flung himself upon the fan, picked it up and handed it to the lady with his most courtly bow. A brillian smile rewarded him, and he was well content.

But the blow on his head had been a hard one, and Pierre fell ill with fever and delirium. He knew nothing until weeks later he opened his eyes in a strange room, once fine but now faded and dull compared with the bright rooms of Versailles. Everything was still. There were no rumblings of carts and no shrill street cries as in Paris. He was in the country at the old family château, where with old Nanna his mother had sent him to get well. He got well slowly, and it was the dreariest life he had ever known. There was nothing to do; he was not allowed to hunt; there was no good horse to ride, and there were no people to talk to. On all sides of the château stretched fields and woods and pastures with only the peasants at work in them. Such people he had never seen. They certainly were not like Boucher's pictures. They were coarse, clumsy, stupid creatures, bent over as they walked, dressed almost in rags, with legs and feet bare, and their faces were heavy, without expression. "Who are these?" he asked old Nanna.

"Your people," she answered. "It is they who work the ground for Madame la Comtesse and for you. They are made to do your will."

"But why are they like this?" Pierre cried.

"Ah, they know nothing. They are but beasts," old Nanna said, with the contempt of a city woman for the country, and for the moment Pierre let it go at that.