Us and Uncle Fraud Read Online Free PDF

added. "We don't even touch that. We just walk around. Nothing happens."
    "From that side," Uncle Claude said, pointing to the north, "the Militia would come. From over there—" now he pointed south—"the Gendarmes. In the meantime, large artillery would be lining up in front of the house, commanded by generals. We would be completely outnumbered, and we would be captured—though we would fight nobly, of course—and
then—
"
    "Uncle Claude," I said, laughing, "nothing would happen. Honest."
    But Stephie's eyes were wide. "What then?" she asked.
    "Well," Claude said in a mournful voice, "do you see those four sycamore trees there, at the end of the lawn?"
    We all looked and nodded.
    "We would be tied there, one to each tree. I expect they would offer us blindfolds. Myself, I would refuse a blindfold. What about you, Marcus?"
    Marcus nodded solemnly. "I'd refuse," he said.
    "They would offer us each a last cigarette," Claude said, staring at the four sycamore trees. "Now I don't smoke. But I think I would probably accept that cigarette. Just as a gesture, you understand. What about you, Louisamanda?"
    "Well, yes, okay, I'd accept a cigarette, I suppose."
    "We'd stand there, tightly tied, bravely puffing on those final cigarettes, and then they would ask each of us if we had a last statement to make. Mine would be something slightly scornful, I think. Mine might be: '
Noblesse oblige
.' That's French. What about you, Marcus? What would you say?"
    Marcus felt the edge of his chipped tooth nervously with his tongue. "'Geronimo,'" he said. Would that be okay, do you think?"
    "Perfect," Claude said, nodding. "Louisamanda?"
    I thought frantically. "'Onward, Christian Soldiers'? Is that all right?"
    Claude beamed at me. "Incredible. It has just the right patronizing air of scornfulness. I wish I'd thought of it myself. Now: Stephie? What would you say?"
    Stephie's chin was puckered. "I don't want a cigarette," she whimpered.
    Uncle Claude picked her up. "Good for you," he said, patting her on the back. "You're a much better person than the rest of us. I think they'd probably untie you and let you run home. But Marcus. And Louise." He looked at us grimly. "You know what would come next, don't you?"
    "Firing squad," Marcus muttered.
    We all—except Stephie, who had her face buried in Claude's shoulder—looked once more at the row of death trees. None of us said anything for a moment.
    Then Claude handed Stephie to me, and she wound her arms tightly around my neck. "Women and children stay here," Claude said. "Marcus and I will return the key to its place."
    They were back in a minute, Claude's arm across Marcus's skinny shoulders. "Now," he announced, "we will beat a retreat."
    "It's almost lunch time anyway," Marcus said.
    "The eggs!" I remembered suddenly. "We have to stop at the store. I told Mother I'd buy eggs to dye for Easter."
    We started down the driveway, and Claude lifted Stephie, who was cheerful again, to his shoulders once more. He was silent, and it looked as if he were thinking. Finally, when we were nearing Main Street, he said, "After lunch, Marcus and Louise, I will tell you what's in the box. We will have a
tête-à-tête.
That's French for secret meeting."

    "Stephie," Mother said, untying my sister's bib, "after your nap we'll dye the eggs so that the Easter Bunny can hide them tonight."
    Stephie nodded happily. At two-and-a-half she had no idea who the Easter Bunny was, or wasn't, but she was agreeable to anything that sounded like fun.
    "I'll take her upstairs for her nap," Marcus volunteered. He had raced through lunch, slurping his vegetable soup and demolishing a tuna sandwich in four bites. "When's our secret meeting?" he asked,
turning to Claude, who was still sipping coffee at the kitchen table.
    "In a few minutes," Claude answered. "One o'clock sharp, in my bedroom. Excuse me," he added, looking at me apologetically, "I meant, of course,
Louise's
bedroom."
    Marcus