The young man advanced with some hesitation, for he saw some of the prisoners walking in the shade of an acacia, whose blossoms were bathed in the rosy light of the setting sun. A mound of grass surrounding the tree lent rustic freshness to the scene.
Olivier scanned these moving groups with beating heart, anxiously examining every one that passed him. There were men, women, and even children. But he had recognised no one. His mother and Thérèse apparently were not there.
He would have questioned some one but dared not, vaguely fearing to compromise his dear ones, forgetting that the people before him were also prisoners, and their companions in suffering and misfortune. Just then a young woman, pretty and graceful in her simple toilet, wearing a white cambric cap finely goffered, came briskly towards him.
"You are perhaps looking for some one?" she said in a sweet voice.
"My mother and my fiancée, the citoyennes Durand."
"Oh! they are still at table! Look, the young girl will not eat, and the elder lady is trying to persuade her."
In his hesitation to advance further Olivier had not perceived, on the other side of the acacia, a table laid with coarse earthenware, which was being cleared by several turnkeys and waiters, and at which a few prisoners still lingered.
Yes, it was they, his beloved ones, at last! Olivier remained dumb, divided between his longing to hold them in his arms and the fear of taking them too brusquely by surprise. His unknown ally seemed to divine his feelings, for she said—
"If you like, I will go first to them." Then, as if to reassure him, she introduced herself: "I am the Countess de Narbonne."
Olivier, deeply moved, thanked her in broken phrases, and followed his friendly guide at a distance. Soon she was whispering in Clarisse's ear, as if preparing her for the unexpected visit. Clarisse turned round, and seeing her son, grew deadly pale. She rose and fell into his arms.