Bathilde laughed at her husband’s explanation of the uncomfortable conveyance. But it was evident that the mention of Languedoc only brought back tearful recollections to Louise Gauthier. She shuddered, as the image of some bitter scene was called up by the allusion, and remained silent.
The day wore on. Several persons—neighbours from the bridge, and street acquaintances of Benoit—came in the course of the morning to gossip about the events of which the boat-mill had been the principal scene of action. Bathilde went to market on the quays, and while she was gone Louise busied herself in setting to rights the humble appointments of their ark. The good-hearted Languedocian himself appeared very little at ease with himself respecting the disposal of his time, and he was constantly speculating upon the chance of ever recovering a small sum of money due to him from Exili for lodging and services. He had discarded his motley habit, which hung in a woe-begone and half-ludicrous fashion against the wall; and was now attired in the simple costume of a banlieue peasant.
Twilight was again coming, and the little party were once more reassembled, whilst Bathilde was telling all sorts of wonderful stories of the marvels she had seen on the quays and carrefours, when a fresh visitor arrived at the boat-mill. He came alone in a small boat, similar to the one Sainte-Croix had used the preceding evening, and without announcing himself, entered the apartment with an easy, half-impudent air, which proved that he was on excellent terms with himself. Benoit and his wife received him with great respect, being somewhat overcome by his appearance; for he was gaily dressed, and assumed the air of a grand seigneur. Their visitor was in the little room lately occupied by Exili, which the kind-hearted couple had begged she would call her own so long as she chose to remain with them.
‘Salut! good people,’ said the stranger on entering. ‘Do not let me incommode you. Is this the mill in which the poisoner Exili was captured last evening?’
‘Y-e-s, monsieur,’ gasped Benoit, in very frightened accents, whilst he added inwardly, ‘It is all up with me! I shall be broken or burnt on the Grêve after all!’
There could be no doubt about it in his mind. The visitor was evidently charged with a commission to arrest him as one of the Italian’s accomplices. Even Bathilde’s fresh, rosy cheeks paled; chiefly, however, from beholding her husband’s terror.
‘My husband had nothing in the world to do with him, beyond watching his fires and selling his love spells,’ said Bathilde eagerly. ‘He had not, indeed, monsieur. Maître Picard, the chapelier of the Rue St. Jacques, will give him his good word.’
‘He is one of the Garde Bourgeois of St. Marcel,’ said Benoit.
‘And kept the keys of the Port Bordelle before King Louis knocked it down,’ added his wife rapidly.
‘And his wife owns half the mulberries at Béziers,’ ejaculated Benoit. ‘I worked for her father, monsieur: he would come up to speak for me; but he has been dead ten years.’