III
Less than a month later, on a clear, cold afternoon early in February, a woman, wrapped from head to foot in a dark mantle, was making her way along the main road which cuts straight through the Cache-Renard woods between Alençon and Plélan. She came from the direction of the château and walked briskly, holding her mantle closely round her shoulders.
When she arrived at the clearing where crossroads met and intersected the main one, she paused for a moment, listened intently for a second or two, then struck into the wood along a side track on her left. She followed this track for two hundred mètres or so, then suddenly plunged into the thicket.
The undergrowth here was very dense. Overhead the grey light of the late winter's afternoon filtered through the branches of the trees, guiding the woman on her way. Suddenly, out of the thicket, a gruff voice called out, "Who goes there?" and the woman without hesitation replied, "One who has courage and courts success."
Immediately a dark form detached itself from out the undergrowth.
"Is it you, Blue-Heart?" asked the woman sharply.
"At your service, Mademoiselle," said the rough voice which first had challenged her.
"It is all right," said Mademoiselle. "Are you prepared?"
"Oh, I am prepared right enough!" retorted the man whom she had called Blue-Heart. "My musket has been ready for that vermin this past fortnight. I've been here every afternoon," he continued, "since first I had my orders."
"It couldn't be managed sooner, my friend," answered Mademoiselle. "The fox was wary; he would not walk into the trap."
"It was baited often enough for him."
"Oh, yes! He met me in the town. He walked with me through the streets or along the river bank. He even came to church with me once or twice," she added with a strained laugh. "But, unlike a beast of prey, he would not come out of nights."
"Did he suspect you, Mademoiselle?" asked Blue-Heart; "or Madame?"
"Oh, no!" replied the girl. "Instinctive caution has saved him so far; nothing more."
"Think you he will come?"
"I am sure," she replied decisively. "You'll hear our voices—mine you will recognise. You'll not miss him?" she added with a strange quiver in her voice.
"Miss him?" retorted the man with a savage oath. "Ever since he killed Hare-Lip and Mole-Skin last November not a hundred mètres from this very spot, I have prayed that a bullet from my musket might lay him low."
The girl said nothing more. The man grasped his musket more firmly and cowered into the thicket, and she turned and went back towards the cross roads.
At this very moment a man was walking rapidly towards the same cross roads, but from the opposite direction. He, too, held his cloak wrapped closely up to his chin, for the air was cold. But soon he paused, threw back his mantle and unfolded a scrap of paper he had been holding tightly squeezed in his hand. Once again he read the lines which were so familiar to him, and when he had finished reading he pressed the precious scrap of paper once or twice to his lips. Then he continued on his way.
Some time before he reached the cross roads, he saw Constance de Plélan coming towards him. A moment or two later he was by her side, confused and shy, hardly able to speak owing to the overwhelming sense of happiness.
He tried to take her in his arms, but she evaded him, slipping away from him like a mischievous elf of the woods.
"Let us walk a little," she said.
He was ready to do anything she wished. His calm, reserved demeanour appeared in strange contrast to her exuberant vitality. He hardly could believe in the reality of this supreme moment, and he moved along beside her like a sleepwalker in a dream. He tried to lead the way towards the cross roads.
"There is a side-track there," he said, "sheltered against the wind and carpeted with moss. We should be more lonely there."
But she demurred and, with a laugh, clung to his arm and made him turn back towards the city. She talked at random, almost wildly, about irrelevant things, whilst he wished to speak of nothing but of his love for her—born on that afternoon when she had sung to him and with her own white hands had given him the tin box. The papers it contained were worthless, perhaps; but he had been deeply moved by her trust in him and his admiration had quickened into love. Since then he had dreamed of the happy time when she would trust him more fully and allow him to walk by her side and to sit with her, untrammelled by the presence of strangers. Hitherto she had been very shy and reticent, though at times she met him in the town when she was up for a day's shopping or to see her friends. Once or twice she had sent him a treasured little note, telling him that she would be going to church alone.
These had been happy times, and his love had grown in intensity with every meeting. But still he longed to have her all to himself. Timidly he ventured to suggest a walk in the woods or in the park of the château. And this morning the measure of his happiness appeared complete. She sent him word that she would walk in the woods as far as the cross roads close to the château, and would meet him there in the late afternoon. He was too unsophisticated and unversed in the usages of Society to marvel at Mademoiselle de Plélan's agreeing to a clandestine meeting with a man far beneath her in station and at an hour when only flirts were wont to walk abroad. He was far too infatuated by this time to see in this unconventional act aught but graciousness on her part.
But now, somehow, he felt disappointed. She insisted on keeping to the main road, where, at this hour, there were many passers-by. The Caen-Alençon coach had only just rattled past with much blowing of horn and clanging of metal chains. And there was such a beautiful side-track he knew of, if only he could induce her to follow him thither!
The time went by all too quickly. Constance de Plélan appeared anxious to go home.
"I have arranged to meet Annette," she said, "my mother's maid. Her mother lives in the cottage on the road to Plélan. Annette has been spending the afternoon with her, and we have agreed to walk back to the château together. I would not wish her to see you."
And the police agent, smothering a sigh of regret, escorted her back as far as the edge of the wood. He would have liked to walk on with her to the château, but this she resolutely forbade him to do.
"We must not be seen together by Annette," she reiterated somewhat tartly.
Fernand had not yet earned the right to insist. The parting was more disappointing than even the meeting had been. Constance de Plélan now appeared desperately anxious to be rid of him. He tried to take her hand, but even this privilege was denied him.
"The cottage is just round the bend of the road," she said with forced gaiety. "Annette may appear before us at any moment."
Whereupon she turned and left him standing alone and disconsolate, his longing eyes watching her graceful figure as she moved swiftly along and soon disappeared round a sharp bend in the road.
Then, with another bitter sigh, he, too, turned on his heel and started to walk back through the wood.