PETIT-PIERRE MAKES THE BEST MEAL HE EVER MADE IN HIS LIFE.
Petit-Pierre, left alone, leaned against a tree, and there, silent, motionless, with fixed eyes and straining ears, he waited, striving to catch every sound as it passed him. For five minutes he heard nothing except a sort of hum which came from the direction of the lights.
Suddenly the neighing of a horse echoed through the forest. Petit-Pierre trembled. Almost at the same moment a light sound came from the bushes, and a shadow rose before him; it was Bonneville.
Bonneville, who did not see Petit-Pierre leaning against the trunk of a tree, called him twice gently. Petit-Pierre bounded toward him.
"Quick! quick!" said Bonneville, dragging Petit-Pierre away.
"What is it?"
"Not an instant to lose! Come! come!"
Then, as he ran, he said:--
"A camp of soldiers. If there were men only I might have warmed myself at their fire without their seeing or hearing me; but a horse smelt me out and neighed."
"I heard it."
"Then you understand; not a word. We must take to our legs, that's all."
As he spoke they were running along a wood-road, which fortunately came in their way. After a time Bonneville drew Petit-Pierre into the bushes.
"Get your breath," he said.
While Petit-Pierre rested, Bonneville tried to make out where they were.
"Are we lost?" asked Petit-Pierre, uneasily.
"Oh, no danger of that!" said Bonneville. "I'm only looking for a way to avoid that horrid marsh."
"If it leads us straight to our object we had better take it," said Petit-Pierre.
"We must," replied Bonneville; "I don't see any other way."
"Forward, then!" cried Petit-Pierre; "only, you must guide me."
Bonneville made no answer; but in proof of urgency, he started at once, and instead of following the "line" path on which they were, he turned to the right and plunged into the thicket. At the end of ten minutes' march the underbrush lessened. They were nearing the edge of the forest, and they could hear before them the swishing of the reeds in the wind.
"Aha!" cried Petit-Pierre, recognizing the sound; "we are close to the marsh now."
"Yes," said Bonneville; "and I ought not to conceal from you that this is the most critical moment of our flight."
So saying, the young man took from his pocket a knife, which might, if necessary, be used as a dagger, and cut down a sapling, removing all the branches, but taking care to hide each one as he lopped it off.
"Now," he said, "my poor Petit-Pierre, you must resign yourself and go back to your former place on my shoulders."
Petit-Pierre instantly did as he was told, and Bonneville went forward toward the marsh. His advance under the weight he carried, hindered by the long sapling which he used to test the condition of the ground at every step, was horribly difficult. Often he sank into the slough almost to his knees, and the earth, which seemed soft enough as it gave way under him, offered a positive resistance when he sought to extricate himself. It was, in fact, with the utmost difficulty that he could get his legs out of it; it seemed as though the gulf that opened at their feet was unwilling to relinquish its prey.
"Let me give you some advice, my dear count," said Petit-Pierre.
Bonneville stopped and wiped his brow.
"If, instead of paddling in this mire, you stepped from tuft to tuft of those reeds which are growing here, I think you would find a better foothold."
"Yes," said Bonneville, "I should; but we should leave more visible traces." Then, a moment later, he added, "No matter. You are right; it is best."
And changing his direction a little, Bonneville took to the reeds. The matted roots of the water-plants had, in fact, made little islets of a foot or more in circumference, which gave a fairly good foothold over the boggy ground. The young man felt them, one after the other, with the end of his stick and stepped from each to each.
Nevertheless, he slipped constantly. Burdened with Petit-Pierre's weight, he had great difficulty in recovering himself; and before long this toilsome struggle so completely exhausted him he was forced to ask Petit-Pierre to get down and let him rest awhile.
"You are worn out, my poor Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre. "Is it very much farther, this marsh of yours?"
"Two or three hundred yards more, and then we re-enter the forest as far as the line-path to Benaste, which will take us direct to the farm."
"Can you go as far as that?"
"I hope so."
"Good God! how I wish I could carry you myself, or at any rate, walk beside you."
These words restored the count's courage. Giving up his second method of advancing from tuft to tuft, he plunged resolutely into the mire. But the more he advanced, the more the slough appeared to move and deepen. Suddenly Bonneville, who had made a mistake and placed his foot on a spot he had not had time to sound, felt himself sinking rapidly and likely to disappear.
"If I sink altogether," he said, "fling yourself either to right or left. These dangerous places are never very wide."
Petit-Pierre sprang off at once, not to save himself, but to lighten Bonneville of the additional weight.
"Oh, my friend!" he cried, with an aching heart and eyes wet with tears as he listened to that generous cry of devotion and self-forgetfulness, "think only of yourself, I command you."
The young count had already sunk to the waist. Fortunately, he had time to put his sapling across the bog before him; and as each end rested on a tuft of reeds sufficiently strong to bear a weight, he was able, thanks to the support they gave, and aided by Petit-Pierre, who held him by the collar of his coat, to extricate himself from the dangerous place.
Soon the ground became more solid; the black line of the woods which had all along marked the horizon came nearer and increased in height. The fugitives were evidently approaching the end of the bog.
"At last!" cried Bonneville.
"Ouf!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, slipping off Bonneville's shoulders as soon as he felt that the earth was solid beneath their feet. "Ouf! you must be worn out, my dear count."
"Out of breath, that's all," replied Bonneville.
"Good heavens!" cried Petit-Pierre; "to think that I should have nothing to give you,--not even the flask of a soldier or pilgrim, or the crust of a beggar's loaf!"
"Pooh!" said the count; "my strength doesn't come from my stomach."
"Tell me where it does come from, my dear count, and I will try to be as strong as you."
"Are you hungry?"
"I'll admit that I could eat something."
"Alas!" said the count; "you make me regret now what I cared little for a moment ago."
Petit-Pierre laughed; and then, for the purpose of keeping up his companion's heart, he cried out gayly:--
"Bonneville, call the usher and let him notify the chamberlain on duty to order the stewards to bring my lunch-basket. I would like one of those snipe I hear whistling about us."
"Her Royal Highness is served," said the count, kneeling on one knee, and offering on the top of his hat an object which Petit-Pierre seized eagerly.
"Bread!" he cried.
"Black bread," said Bonneville.
"Oh, no matter! I can't see the color at night."
"Dry bread! doubly dry!"
"But it is bread, at any rate."
And Petit-Pierre set his handsome teeth into the crust, which had been drying in the count's pocket for the last two days.
"And when I think," said Petit-Pierre, "that General Dermoncourt is probably at this moment eating my supper at Souday, isn't it aggravating?" Then, suddenly, "Oh! forgive me, my dear guide," he went on, "but my stomach got the better of my heart; I forgot to offer you half my supper."
"Thanks," replied Bonneville; "but my appetite isn't strong enough yet to munch stones. In return for your gracious offer, I'll show you how to make your poor supper less husky."
Bonneville took the bread, broke it, not without difficulty, into little bits, soaked it in a brook that was flowing quite near them, called Petit-Pierre, sat down himself on one side the brook, while Petit-Pierre sat on the other, and taking out one by one the softened crusts, presented them to his famished companion.
"Upon my honor!" said the latter, when he came to the last crumb, "I haven't eaten such a good supper for twenty years. Bonneville, I appoint you steward of my household."
"Meantime," said the count, "I am your guide. Come, luxury enough; we must continue our way."
"I'm ready," said Petit-Pierre, springing gayly to his feet.
Again they started through the woods, and half an hour's walking brought them to a river which they were forced to cross. Bonneville tried his usual method; but at the first step, the water came to his waist, at the second to his shoulders. Feeling himself dragged by the current he caught at the branch of a tree and returned to the bank.
It was necessary to find a way to cross. At a distance of about three hundred yards Bonneville thought he had found one; but it was nothing more than the trunk of a tree lately blown down by the wind, and still bearing all its branches.
"Do you think you can walk over that?" he asked Petit-Pierre.
"If you can, I can," replied the latter.
"Hold on to the branches, and don't have any conceit about your powers; don't raise one foot till you are quite sure the other is firm," said Bonneville, climbing first on to the trunk of the tree.
"I'm to follow, I suppose?"
"Wait till I can give you a hand."
"Here I am! Goodness! what a number of things one ought to know in order to roam the wilds; I never should have thought it."
"Don't talk, for God's sake! pay attention to your feet. One moment! Stop where you are; don't move. Here's a branch you can't get by; I'll cut it."
Just as he stooped to do as he said, the count heard a smothered cry behind him and the fall of a body into the water. He looked back. Petit-Pierre had disappeared.
Without losing a second, Bonneville dropped into the same place; and his luck served him well, for going to the bottom of the river, which was not more than eight feet deep at this place, his hand came in contact with Petit-Pierre's leg.
He seized it, trembling with emotion, and paying no heed to the uncomfortable position in which he held the body he struck out for the bank of the stream, which was, happily, as narrow as it was deep. Petit-Pierre made no movement. Bonneville took him in his arms and laid him on the dry leaves, calling, entreating, even shaking him.
Petit-Pierre continued silent and motionless. The count tore his hair in his anguish.
"Oh, it is my fault! my fault!" he cried. "O God, you have punished my pride! I counted too much on myself; I thought I could save her. Oh, my life,--take my life, God! for one sigh, one breath--"
The cool night air did more to bring Petit-Pierre to life than all Bonneville's lamentations; at the end of a few minutes he opened his eyes and sneezed.
Bonneville, who, in his paroxysm of grief, swore not to survive the being whose death he thought he had caused, gave a cry of joy and fell on his knees by Petit-Pierre, who was now sufficiently recovered to understand his last words.
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "you didn't say 'God bless you!' when I sneezed, and now I shall have a cold in my head."
"Living! living! living!" cried Bonneville, as exuberant in his joy as he was in his grief.
"Yes, living enough, thanks to you. If you were any other than you are, I would swear to you never to forget it."
"You are soaked!"
"Yes, my shoes especially, Bonneville. The water keeps running down, running down in a most disagreeable manner."
"And no fire! no means to make one!"
"Pooh! we shall get warm in walking. I speak in the plural, for you must be as wet as I am; in fact, it's your third bath,--one was of mud."
"Oh, don't think of me! Can you walk?"
"I believe so, as soon as I empty my shoes."
Bonneville helped Petit-Pierre to get rid of the water which filled her shoes. Then he took off his own thick jacket, and having wrung the water from it, he put it over her shoulders, saying:--
"Now for Benaste, and fast, too!"
"Ha! Bonneville," exclaimed Petit-Pierre; "a fine gain we have made by trying to avoid that camp-fire which would be everything to us just now!"
"We can't go back and deliver ourselves up," said Bonneville, with a look of despair.
"Nonsense! don't take my little joke as a reproach. What an ill-regulated mind you have! Come, let us march, march! Now that I use my legs I feel I am drying up; in ten minutes I shall begin to perspire."
There was no need to hasten Bonneville. He advanced so rapidly that Petit-Pierre could barely keep up with him; and from time to time she was forced to remind him that her legs were not as long as his.
But Bonneville could not recover from the shock of emotion caused by the accident to his young companion, and he now completely lost his head on discovering that, among these bushes he once knew so well, he had missed his way. A dozen times he had stopped as he entered a "line" path and looked about him, and each time, after shaking his head, he plunged onward in a sort of frenzy.
At last Petit-Pierre, who could scarcely keep up with him, except by running, said, as she noticed his increasing agitation:--
"Tell me what is the matter, dear count."
"The matter is that I am a wretched man," said Bonneville. "I relied too much on my knowledge of these localities, and--and--"
"We have lost our way?"
"I fear so."
"And I am sure of it. See, here is a branch I remember breaking when we passed here just now; we are turning in a circle. You see how I profit by your lessons, Bonneville," added Petit-Pierre, triumphantly.
"Ah!" said Bonneville; "I see what set me wrong."
"What was it?"
"When we left the water I landed on the side we had just left, and in my agitation at your accident, I did not notice the mistake."
"So that our plunge bath was absolutely useless!" cried Petit-Pierre, laughing heartily.
"Oh! for God's sake, Madame, don't laugh like that; your gayety cuts me to the heart."
"Well, it warms me."
"Then you are cold?"
"A little; but that's not the worst."
"What is worse?"
"Why, for half an hour you have not dared to tell me we are lost, and for half an hour I've not dared to tell you that my legs seem to be giving way and refusing to do their duty."
"Then what is to become of us?"
"Well, well! am I to play your part as man and give you courage? So be it. The council is open; what is your opinion?"
"That we cannot reach Benaste to-night."
"Next?"
"That we must try to get to the nearest farmhouse before daylight."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre. "Have you any idea of where we are?"
"No stars in the sky, no moon--"
"And no compass," added Petit-Pierre, laughing, and trying by a joke to revive her companion's nerve.
"Wait."
"Ah! you have an idea, I'm sure!"
"I happened to notice the vane on the castle just at dusk; the wind was east."
Bonneville wet his finger in his mouth and held it up.
"What's that for?"
"A weathercock. There's the north," he said, unhesitatingly; "if we walk in the teeth of the wind we shall come out on the plain near Saint-Philbert."
"Yes, by walking; but that's the difficulty."
"Will you let me carry you in my arms?"
"You have enough to carry in yourself, my poor Bonneville."
The duchess rose with an effort, for during the last few moments she had seated herself, or rather let herself drop, at the foot of a tree.
"There!" she said; "now I am on my feet, and I mean that these rebellious legs shall carry me. I will conquer them as I would all rebels; that's what I'm here for."
And the brave woman made four or five steps; but her fatigue was so great, her limbs so stiffened by the icy bath she had taken, that she staggered and came near falling. Bonneville sprang to support her.
"Heart of God!" she cried; "let me alone, Monsieur de Bonneville. I will put this miserable body that God has made so frail and delicate on the level of the soul it covers. Don't give it any help, count; don't support it. Ha! you stagger, do you? ha! you are giving way? Well, if you won't march at the common step you shall be made to charge, and we'll see if in a week you are not as submissive to my will as a beast of burden."
So saying, and joining the action to the word, Petit-Pierre started forward at such a pace that her guide had some difficulty in overtaking her. But the last effort exhausted her; and when Bonneville did rejoin her, she was once more seated, with her face hidden in her two hands. Petit-Pierre was weeping,--weeping with anger rather than pain.
"O God!" she muttered; "you have set me the task of a giant, but you have given me only the strength of a woman."
Willing or not, Bonneville took Petit-Pierre in his arms and hurried along. The words that Gaspard had said to him as they left the vaults rang in his ears. He felt that so delicate a body could not bear up any longer under these violent shocks, and he resolved to spend his last strength in putting the treasure confided to him in a place of safety. He knew now that a few moments wasted might mean death to his companion.
For over fifteen minutes the brave man kept on rapidly. His hat fell off, but no longer caring for the trail he left behind him, the count did not stop to pick it up. He felt the body of the duchess shuddering with cold in his arms, he heard her teeth chattering; and the sound spurred him as the applause of a crowd spurs a race-horse, and gave him superhuman energy.
But, little by little, this fictitious strength gave way. Bonneville's legs would only obey him mechanically; the blood seemed to settle on his chest and choked him. He felt his heart swell; he could not breathe; his breath rattled; a cold sweat poured from his brow; his arteries throbbed as if his head must burst. From time to time a thick cloud covered his eyes, marbled with flame. Soon he staggered at every slope, stumbled at every stone; his failing knees, powerless to straighten themselves, could only go forward by a mighty effort.
"Stop! stop! Monsieur de Bonneville," cried Petit-Pierre; "stop, I command you!"
"No, I will not stop," replied Bonneville. "I have still some strength, thank God! and I shall use it to the end. Stop? stop? when we are almost into port? when at the cost of a little further effort I shall put you in safety? There! see that; look there!"
And as he spoke they saw at the end of the path they were following a broad band of ruddy light which rose above the horizon; and on that glow a black and angular shape stood out distinctly, indicating a house. Day was dawning. They had now reached the end of the wood and were at the edge of fields.
But just as Bonneville gave that cry of joy, his legs bent under him; he fell to his knees. Then, with a last supreme effort, he cast himself gently backward as if at the moment when his consciousness left him he meant to spare his precious burden from the dangers of a fall. Petit-Pierre released herself from his grasp and stood at his feet, but so feebly that she seemed scarcely stronger than her companion. She tried to raise the count, but could not do it. Bonneville, for his part, put his hands to his mouth,--no doubt to give the owl's cry of the Chouans; but his breath failed him, and he scarcely uttered the words, "Don't forget--" before he fainted entirely.
The house they had seen was not more than seven or eight hundred steps from the place where Bonneville had fallen. Petit-Pierre determined to go there and ask at all risks for assistance to her friend. Making a supreme effort she started in that direction. Just as she passed a crossway Petit-Pierre saw a man on one of the paths that led to it. She called to him, but he did not turn his head.
Then Petit-Pierre, either by a sudden inspiration or because she gave that meaning to Bonneville's last words, utilized a lesson the count had taught her. Putting her hands to her mouth she uttered, as best she could, the cry of the screech-owl.
The man stopped instantly, turned back, and came to Petit-Pierre.
"My friend," she cried, as soon as he came within reach of her voice, "if you need gold, I will give it to you; but, for God's sake, come and help me save an unfortunate man who is dying."
Then, with all her remaining strength, and seeing that the man was following her, Petit-Pierre hurried back to Bonneville and raised his head by an effort. The count was still unconscious.
As soon as the new-comer reached them and glanced at the prostrate man, he said:--
"You need not offer me gold to induce me to help Monsieur le Comte de Bonneville."
Petit-Pierre looked at the man attentively.
"Jean Oullier!" she cried, recognizing the Marquis de Souday's keeper in the dawning light,--"Jean Oullier, can you find a safe refuge for my friend and for me close by?"
"There is no house but this within a mile or two," he said.
He spoke of it with repugnance, but Petit-Pierre either did not or would not notice the tone.
"You must guide me and carry him."
"Down there?" cried Jean Oullier.
"Yes; are not they royalists?--the persons who live in that house, I mean."
"I don't know yet," said Jean Oullier.
"Go on; I put our lives in your hands, Jean Oullier, and I know that you deserve my utmost confidence."
Jean Oullier took Bonneville, still unconscious, on his shoulders, and led Petit-Pierre by the hand. He walked toward the house, which was that belonging to Joseph Picaut and his sister-in-law, the widow of Pascal.
Jean Oullier mounted the hedge-bank as easily as though he were only carrying a game-bag, instead of the body of a man. Once in the orchard, however, he advanced cautiously. Every one was still sleeping in Joseph's part of the house; but it was not so in the widow's room. In the gleam from the windows a shadow could be seen passing to and fro behind the curtains.
Jean Oullier seemed now to decide between two courses.
"Faith! weighing one against the other," he muttered to himself, "I like it as well this way."
And he walked resolutely to that part of the house which belonged to Pascal. When he reached the door he opened it. Pascal's body lay on the bed. The widow had lighted two candles, and was praying beside the dead. Hearing the door open, she rose and turned round.
"Widow Pascal," said Jean Oullier, without releasing his burden or the hand of Petit-Pierre, "I saved your life to-night at the Viette des Biques."
Marianne looked at him in astonishment, as if trying to recall her recollections.
"Don't you believe me?"
"Yes, Jean Oullier, I believe you; I know you are not a man to tell a lie, were it even to save your life. Besides, I heard the shot and I suspected whose hand fired it."
"Widow Pascal, will you avenge your husband and make your fortune at one stroke? I bring you the means."
"How?"
"Here," continued Jean Oullier, "are Madame la Duchesse de Berry and Monsieur le Comte de Bonneville, who might have died, perhaps, of hunger and fatigue, if I had not come, as I have, to ask you to shelter them; here they are."
The widow looked at all three in stupefaction, yet with a visible interest.
"This head, which you see here," continued Jean Oullier, "is worth its weight in gold. You can deliver it up if you so please, and, as I told you, avenge your husband and make your fortune by that act."
"Jean Oullier," replied the widow, in a grave voice, "God commands us to do charity to all, whether great or small. Two unfortunate persons have come to my door; I shall not repulse them. Two exiles ask me to shelter them, and my house shall crumble about my ears before I betray them." Then, with a simple gesture, to which her action gave a splendid grandeur, she added:--
"Enter, Jean Oullier; enter fearlessly,--you, and those who are with you."
They entered. While Petit Pierre was helping Jean Oullier to place the count in a chair, the old keeper said to her in a low voice:--
"Madame, put back your own fair hair behind your wig; it made me guess the truth I have told this woman, but others ought not to see it."