THE DANGER OF MEETING BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS.
It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when Petit-Pierre, accompanied by Baron Michel, now her guide in place of poor Bonneville, left the cottage where she had escaped such dangers.
It was not, as we can readily believe, without a deep and painful emotion that Petit-Pierre crossed that threshold and left the cold, inanimate body of the chivalrous young man, whom she had known for a few days only, but already loved as an old and trusted friend. That valiant heart of hers had a momentary sense of weakness at the thought of meeting alone the perils that for four or five days poor Bonneville had shared with her. The royal cause had only lost one soldier, yet Petit-Pierre felt as though an army was gone.
It was the first grain of the bloody seed about to be sown once more in the soil of La Vendée; and Petit-Pierre asked herself in anguish if, indeed, nothing would come of it but regret and mourning.
Petit-Pierre did not insult Marianne Picaut by charging her to take good care of the body of poor Bonneville. Strange as the ideas of that woman may have seemed to her, she understood the nobility of her feelings, and recognized all that was truly good and profoundly religious beneath her rough exterior. When Michel brought his horse to the door and reminded Petit-Pierre that every moment was precious, the latter turned to the widow of Pascal Picaut, and holding out her hand, said:
"How can I thank you for all you have done for me?"
"I have done nothing for you," replied Marianne; "I have paid a debt,--fulfilled an oath, that is all."
"Then," said Petit-Pierre, with tears in her eyes, "you will not even accept my gratitude?"
"If you are determined to owe me something," said the widow, "do this: when you pray for those who are dead add to your prayers a few words for those who have died because of you."
"Then you think I have some credit with God?" said Petit-Pierre, unable to keep from smiling through her tears.
"Yes; because I know that you are destined to suffer."
"At least, you will accept this," said Petit-Pierre, unfastening from her throat a little medal hanging to a slender black silk cord. "It is only silver, but the Holy Father blessed it in my presence, and said when he gave it to me that God would grant the prayers uttered over it, if they were just and pious."
Marianne took the medal. Then she said:--
"Thank you. On this medal I will pray to God that our land be saved from civil war, and that He will ever preserve its grandeur and its liberty."
"Right!" said Petit-Pierre; "the last half of your prayer will be echoed in mine."
Aided by Michel, she mounted the horse which the young man led by the bridle, and with a last signal of farewell to the widow, they both disappeared behind the hedge.
For some minutes Petit-Pierre, whose head was bowed on her breast, swayed to the motions of the horse and seemed to be buried in deep and painful reflections. At last, however, she made an effort over herself, and shaking off the grief that overcame her, she turned to Michel, who was walking beside her.
"Monsieur," she said, "I already know two things which entitle you to my confidence: first, that we owed the warning that troops were surrounding the château de Souday to you; second, that you have come to me to-day in the name of the marquis and his charming daughters. But there is still a third thing, about which I should like to know, and that is, who you are. My friends are rare under present circumstances, and I like to know their names that I may promise not to forget them."
"I am called Baron Michel de la Logerie," replied the young man.
"De la Logerie! Surely this is not the first time I have heard that name?"
"Very likely not, Madame," said the young man; "for our poor Bonneville told me he was taking your Highness to my mother--"
"Stop, stop! what are you saying? Your Highness! There is no highness here; I see only a poor little peasant-lad named Petit-Pierre."
"Ah, true; but Madame will excuse--"
"What! again?"
"Pardon me. Our poor Bonneville was taking you to my mother when I had the honor of meeting and conducting you to Souday."
"So that I am under a triple obligation to you. That does not disquiet me; for, great as your services have been, I hope the time will come when I can discharge my debt."
Michel stammered a few words, which did not reach the ears of his companion. But the latter's words seemed to have made an impression on him; for from that moment, while obeying the injunction to refrain from a certain deference, he redoubled his care and attention to the personage he was guiding.
"But it seems to me," said Petit-Pierre, after a moment's thought, "from what Monsieur de Bonneville told me, that royalist opinions are not altogether those of your family."
"No, they are not, Ma--mon--"
"Call me Petit-Pierre, or do not call me anything; that is the only way to avoid embarrassment. So it is to a conversion that I owe the honor of having you for my knight?"
"An easy conversion! At my age opinions are not convictions; they are only sentiments."
"You are indeed very young," said Petit-Pierre, looking at her guide.
"I am nearly twenty-one."
Petit-Pierre gave a sigh.
"That is the fine age," she said, "for love or war."
The young man heaved a deep sigh, and Petit-Pierre, who heard it, smiled imperceptibly.
"Ah!" she said; "there's a sigh which tells me many things about the conversion we were speaking of just now. I will wager that a pretty pair of eyes knows something about it, and that if the soldiers of Louis-Philippe were to search you at this moment they would find a scarf that is dearer to you for the hands that embroidered it than for the principles of which its color is the emblem."
"I assure you, Madame," stammered Michel, "that is not the cause of my determination."
"Come, come, don't defend yourself; all that is true chivalry, Monsieur Michel. We must never forget, whether we descend from them or whether we seek to emulate them, that the knights of old placed women next to God and on the level of kings, combining all three in one device. Do not be ashamed of loving! Why, that is your greatest claim to my sympathy! Ventre-saint-gris! as Henri IV. would have said; with an army of twenty thousand lovers I could conquer not only all France, but the world! Come, tell me the name of your lady, Monsieur le Baron de la Logerie."
"Oh!" exclaimed Michel, deeply shocked.
"Ah! I see you are discreet, young man. I congratulate you; it is a quality all the more precious because in these days it is so rare. But never mind; to a travelling-companion we tell all, charging him to keep our secret inviolably. Come, shall I help you? I will wager that we are now going toward the lady of our thoughts."
"You are right there."
"And I will further wager that she is neither more nor less than one of those charming amazons at Souday."
"Good heavens! who could have told you?"
"Well, I congratulate you again, my young friend. Wolves as I am told some persons call them, I know they have brave and noble hearts, capable of bestowing happiness on the husbands they select. Are you rich, Monsieur de la Logerie?"
"Alas, yes!" replied Michel.
"So much the better, and not alas at all! You can enrich your wife, and that seems to me a great happiness. In all cases, in all loves, there are certain little difficulties to overcome, and if Petit-Pierre can help you at any time you have only to call upon him; he will be most happy to recognize in that way the services you have been good enough to render him. But, if I'm not mistaken, here comes some one toward us. Listen; don't you hear a tread?"
The steps of a man now became distinctly audible. They were still at some distance, but were coming nearer.
"I think the man is alone," said Petit-Pierre.
"Yes; but we must not be the less on our guard," replied the baron. "I shall ask your permission to mount that horse in front of you."
"Willingly; but are you already tired?"
"No, not at all. Only, I am well known in the neighborhood, and if I were seen on foot leading a horse on which a peasant was riding, as Haman led Mordecai, it might give rise to a good deal of speculation."
"Bravo! what you say is very true. I begin to think we shall make something of you in the end."
Petit-Pierre jumped to the ground. Michel mounted; and Petit-Pierre placed herself humbly behind him. They were hardly settled in their seats before they came within thirty yards of an individual who was walking in their direction, and whose steps now ceased abruptly.
"Oh! oh!" said Petit-Pierre; "it seems that if we are afraid of him, he is afraid of us."
"Who's there?" called Michel, making his voice gruff.
"Ah! is it you, Monsieur le baron?" replied the man, advancing. "The devil take me if I expected to meet you here at this hour!"
"You told the truth when you said that you were well known," whispered Petit-Pierre, laughing.
"Yes, unfortunately," said Michel, in a tone which warned Petit-Pierre they were in presence of a real danger.
"Who is this man?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"Courtin, my farmer,--the one we suspect of denouncing your presence at Marianne Picaut's." Then he added, in a vehement and imperative tone, which made his companion aware of the urgency of the situation, "Hide behind me as much as possible."
Petit-Pierre immediately obeyed.
"Oh! it is you Courtin, is it?" said Michel.
"Yes, it is I," replied the farmer.
"Where do you come from?" asked Michel.
"From Machecoul; I went there to buy an ox."
"Where is your ox? I don't see it."
"No, I couldn't make a trade. These damned politics hinder business, and there's nothing now in the market," said Courtin, who was carefully examining, as well as he could in the darkness, the horse on which the young baron was mounted.
Then, as Michel dropped the conversation, he continued:--
"But how is it you are turning your back to La Logerie at this time of night?"
"That's not surprising; I am going to Souday."
"Might I observe that you are not altogether on the road to Souday?"
"I know that; but I was afraid the road was guarded, so I have made a circuit."
"In that case,--I mean if you are really going to Souday," said Courtin,--"I think I ought to give you a bit of advice."
"Well, give it; sincere advice is always useful."
"Don't go; the cage is empty."
"Pooh!"
"Yes, I tell you, it is empty; there's no use in your going there, Monsieur le baron, to find the bird who has sent you scouring the country."
"Who told you that, Courtin?" said Michel, man[oe]uvring his horse so as to keep his body well before Courtin, and thus mask Petit-Pierre behind him.
"Who told me? Hang it! my eyes told me; I saw them all file out of the courtyard, the devil take them! They marched right past me on the road to Grandes-Landes."
"Were the soldiers in that direction?" asked the young baron.
Petit-Pierre thought this question rash, and she pinched Michel's arm.
"Soldiers!" replied Courtin; "why should you be afraid of soldiers? But if you are, I advise you not to risk yourself at this time of night on the plain. You can't go three miles without coming plump on bayonets. Do a wiser thing than that, Monsieur Michel."
"What do you advise me to do? Come, if your way is better than mine, I'll take it."
"Go back with me to La Logerie; you will give your mother great satisfaction, for she is fretting herself to death over the way you are behaving."
"Maître Courtin," said Michel, "I'll give you a bit of advice in exchange."
"What's that, Monsieur le baron?"
"To hold your tongue."
"No, I cannot hold my tongue," replied the farmer, assuming an appearance of sorrowful emotion,--"no, it grieves me too much to see my young master exposed to such dangers, and all for--"
"Hush, Courtin!"
"For those cursed she-wolves whom the son of a peasant like myself would have none of."
"Wretch! will you be silent?" cried Michel, raising his whip.
The action, which Courtin had no doubt tried to provoke, caused Michel's horse to give a jump forward, and the mayor of La Logerie was now abreast of the two riders.
"I am sorry if I've offended you, Monsieur le baron," he said, in a whining tone. "Forgive me; but I haven't slept for two nights thinking about it."
Petit-Pierre shuddered. She heard the same false and wheedling voice that had spoken to her in the cottage of the Widow Picaut, followed, after the speaker's departure, by such painful events. She made Michel another sign, by which she meant, "Let us get rid of this man at any cost."
"Very good," said Michel; "go your way and let us go ours."
Courtin pretended to notice for the first time that Michel had some one behind him.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "Why, you are not alone! Ah! I see now, Monsieur le baron, why you were so touchy about what I said. Well, monsieur," he said, addressing Petit-Pierre, "whoever you are, I am sure you will be more reasonable than your young friend. Join me in telling him there is nothing to be gained by braving the laws and the power of the government, as he is bent on doing to please those wolves."
"Once more, Courtin," said Michel, in a tone that was actually menacing, "I tell you to go. I act as I think best, and I consider you very insolent to presume to judge of my conduct."
But Courtin, whose smooth persistency we all know by this time, seemed determined not to depart without getting a look at the features of the mysterious personage whom his young master had behind him.
"Come," he said; "to-morrow you can do as you like; but to-night, at least, come and sleep at the farmhouse,--you and the person, lady or gentleman, who is with you. I swear to you, Monsieur le baron, that there is danger in being out to-night."
"There is no danger for myself and my companion, for we are not concerned in politics. What are you doing to my saddle, Courtin?" asked the young man suddenly, noticing a movement on his farmer's part which he did not understand.
"Why, nothing, Monsieur Michel; nothing," said Courtin, with perfect good-humor. "So then, you positively won't listen to my advice and entreaties?"
"No; go your way, and let me go mine."
"Go, then!" exclaimed the farmer, in his sly, sarcastic tone; "and God be with you. Remember that poor Courtin did what he could to prevent you from rushing into danger."
So saying, Courtin finally drew aside, and Michel, setting spurs to his horse, rode past him.
"Gallop! gallop!" cried Petit-Pierre. "That is the man who caused poor Bonneville's death. Let us get on as fast as we can; that man has the evil-eye."
The young baron stuck both spurs into his horse; but the animal had hardly gone a dozen paces before the saddle turned, and both riders came heavily to the ground. Petit-Pierre was up first.
"Are you hurt?" she asked Michel, who was getting up more slowly.
"No," he replied; "but I am wondering how--"
"How we came to fall? That's not the question. We did fall, and there's the fact. Girth your horse again, and as fast as possible."
"Aïe!" cried Michel, who had already thrown the saddle over his horse's back; "both girths are broken at precisely the same height."
"Say they are cut," said Petit-Pierre. "It is a trick of your infernal Courtin; and it is a warning of worse--Wait, look over there."
Michel, whose arm Petit-Pierre had seized, looked in the direction to which she pointed, and there, about a mile distant in the valley, he saw three or four camp-fires shining in the darkness.
"It is a bivouac," said Petit-Pierre. "If that scoundrel suspects the truth--and no doubt he does--he will make for the camp and set those red-breeches on our traces."
"Ah! do you think that knowing I am with you, I, his master, he would dare--"
"I must suppose everything, Monsieur Michel, and I must risk nothing."
"You are right; we must leave nothing to chance."
"Hadn't we better leave the beaten path?"
"I was thinking of that."
"How much time will it take to go on foot to the place where the marquis is awaiting us?"
"An hour, at least; and we have no time to lose. But what shall we do with the horse? He can't climb the banks as we must."
"Throw the bridle on his neck. He'll go back to his stable; and if our friends meet the animal on the way, they'll know some accident has happened and will come in search of us. Hush! hush!"
"What is it?"
"Don't you hear something?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"Yes; horses' feet in the direction of that bivouac."
"You see it was not without a motive that your farmer cut our saddle-girths. Let us be off, my poor baron."
"But if we leave the horse here those who search for us will know the riders are not far off."
"Stop!" said Petit-Pierre; "I have an idea, an Italian idea!--the races of the barberi. Yes, that's the very thing. Do as I do, Monsieur Michel."
"Go on; I obey."
Petit-Pierre set to work. With her delicate hands, and at the risk of lacerating them, she broke off branches of thorn and holly from the neighboring hedge. Michel did the same, and they presently had two thick and prickly bundles of short sticks.
"What's to be done with them?" asked Michel.
"Tear the name off your handkerchief and give me the rest."
Michel obeyed. Petit-Pierre tore the handkerchief into two strips and tied up the bunches. Then she fastened one to the mane, the other to the tail of the horse. The poor animal, feeling the thorns like spurs upon his flesh, began to rear and plunge. The young baron now began to understand.
"Take off his bridle," said Petit-Pierre, "or he may break his neck; and let him go."
The horse was hardly relieved of the saddle that held him before he snorted, shook his mane and tail angrily, and darted away like a tornado, leaving a trail of sparks behind him.
"Bravo!" cried Petit-Pierre. "Now, pick up the saddle and bridle, and let us find shelter ourselves."
They jumped the hedge, Michel having thrown the saddle and bridle before him. There they crouched down and listened. The gallop of the horse still resounded on the stony road.
"Do you hear it?" said the baron, satisfied.
"Yes; but we are not the only ones who are listening to it, Monsieur le baron," said Petit-Pierre. "Hear the echo."