It was bad logic. But when passion urges a man, good-bye to his logic!
Villemet said nothing to Tournier about it. He knew it would be of no use. Nor did he say anything to anybody. He had no wish to incur the responsibility of involving others in the rash attempt.
There was an inn called the “Wheat Sheaf” in the parish of Stibbington, about five miles from the barracks. It was a favourite rendezvous of the officers on parole, not for the sake of tippling, the chief attraction of such places in these more enlightened days, but because they could get a recherché dinner there, the mother of the highly respectable landlord being a singularly good cook. Villemet knew the place well, and had been often there. Thither he proceeded one afternoon on a day when he knew few, if any, from the barracks would be there, and had some dinner all by himself in the familiar parlour. Then he sat down in the well-worn arm-chair, and rang for a cigar. “If anybody calls to see me,” he said to the waiting-maid, “shew him in here, and mind you don’t let anyone disturb me while he is here. Now don’t you forget,” he added with a severe look the girl had never seen before in the merry fellow’s face; “nobody whatever is to come in while we are talking.”
In the evening of the same day, as it began to get dark, Tournier, who had been spending the day with Cosin, was on the point of getting up to return to the barracks, when the landlord of the “Wheat Sheaf” was announced. He had asked to see Tournier.
“Tell him to come in here,” said Cosin, “and I will leave you to yourselves.”
“Pray don’t,” said the other laughing; “I have no secrets with the worthy host of the ‘Wheat Sheaf.’”
“I have brought bad news, gentlemen,” said the man hurriedly; “your friend, Mr. Villemet, has made away with himself—”
“What! killed himself?” both exclaimed in horror.
“Not quite so bad as that, though it may end in something quite as bad. He has bolted, and never means to come back alive.”
“How do you know?”