Thither they went.  It was not new to either of them.  Ostrander knew it as an artist and as an American reader of that French historic romance—­a reader who hurried over the sham intrigues of the Oeil de Boeuf, the sham pastorals of the Petit Trianon, and the sham heroics of a shifty court, to get to Lafayette.  Helen knew it as a child who had dodged these lessons from her patriotic father, but had enjoyed the woods, the parks, the terraces, and particularly the restaurant at the park gates.  That day they took it like a boy and girl,—­with the amused, omniscient tolerance of youth for a past so inferior to the present.  Ostrander thought this gray-eyed, independent American-French girl far superior to the obsequious filles d’honneur, whose brocades had rustled through those quinquonces, and Helen vaguely realized the truth of her fellow pupil’s mischievous criticism of her companion that day at the Louvre.  Surely there was no classical statue here comparable to the one-armed soldier-painter!

All this was as yet free from either sentiment or passion, and was only the frank pride of friendship.  But, oddly enough, their mere presence and companionship seemed to excite in others that tenderness they had not yet felt themselves.  Family groups watched the handsome pair in their innocent confidences, and, with French exuberant recognition of sentiment, thought them the incarnation of Love.  Something in their manifest equality of condition kept even the vainest and most susceptible of spectators from attempted rivalry or cynical interruption.  And when at last they dropped side by side on a sun-warmed stone bench on the terrace, and Helen, inclining her brown head towards her companion, informed him of the difficulty she had experienced in getting gumbo soup, rice and chicken, corn cakes, or any of her favorite home dishes in Paris, an exhausted but gallant boulevardier rose from a contiguous bench, and, politely lifting his hat to the handsome couple, turned slowly away from what he believed were tender confidences he would not permit himself to hear.

But the shadow of the trees began to lengthen, casting broad bars across the alle, and the sun sank lower to the level of their eyes.  They were quite surprised, on looking around a few moments later, to discover that the gardens were quite deserted, and Ostrander, on consulting his watch, found that they had just lost a train which the other pleasure-seekers had evidently availed themselves of.  No matter; there was another train an hour later; they could still linger for a few moments in the brief sunset and then dine at the local restaurant before they left.  They both laughed at their forgetfulness, and then, without knowing why, suddenly lapsed into silence.  A faint wind blew in their faces and trilled the thin leaves above their heads.  Nothing else moved.  The long windows of the palace in that sunset light seemed to glisten again with the incendiary fires of the Revolution, and then went out blankly and abruptly.  The two companions felt that they possessed the terrace and all its memories as completely as the shadows who had lived and died there.