“George and Leon, bring down my two big trunks, and tell Nini to hitch the donkey to his flat cart and drive to the side door.”  I had resolved to save what I could of H.’s work, and going to the studio closet, I began selecting the portfolios containing mounted drawings and etchings.  It was useless to think of the paintings.  They were too big.  The trunks were full in no time.  I had no other receptacles, so reluctantly closed the but half empty cupboards, consoling myself with the thought that all this was possibly useless preparation, and praying Heaven that I had made a good choice among the portfolios in case the worst came.

The boys put the trunks onto the cart and set off in the direction of a sand quarry, where I knew we could dig in safety, and easily cause a miniature landslide, which would cover all traces of our hidden treasure.  I promised to join them in an hour—­the time I judged it would take them to make so large an excavation, and returning to my room, gathered my jewels and papers into a little valise, and put them beside my fur coat and my kodak.  A few other trinkets and innumerable photographs were locked away in my desk, and perceiving that it would be utterly impossible to carry them with me, I wondered how on earth I might protect them.  Suddenly I bethought me of a tiny silk American flag that my mother had given me years before, when as a child I left home for my first trip to Europe.  I found it where I hoped, and shutting one edge of it into the drawer, I let the stripes hang downward and pinned the following inscription into its folds: 

“I swear that the contents of this desk are purely personal and can be of value to no one but myself.  I therefore leave it under the protection of my country’s flag.”

I felt very proud when I had done this and then hurried into my dressing-room where I hastily filled my suit-case with a few warm underclothes, a change of costume, and an extra pair of shoes.  I had about finished and was heartily glad that this useless job was over, when on glancing out of the window I caught sight of fuzzy-haired Madame La Miche driving up the avenue in her dog cart.

Madame La Miche and her husband run a big stock farm near Neuilly St. Front, some fifteen miles from Villiers.  I had often seen her at poultry and agricultural shows, where their farm products usually carried off any number of prizes.  It was she who sold me my cows hardly a year since.

“You?” I said, as she drew up to the steps.

“Yes.  En route—­like all the others.  Our entire fortune is in live stock and I’m going to try to save as much as I can.  May we come in?”