“I know not; a prospect of escape had led me hither. I must now bethink me of some other course.”
“Burke, I am your debtor for one kindness, at least,” said De Beauvais, after a brief pause. “You saved my life at the risk of your own. The night at the Château d'Ancre should never be forgotten by me; nor had it been, if I did not revenge my own disappointed hopes, in not seducing you to our cause, upon yourself. It may be that I wrong you in everything as in this.”
“Believe me, that you do, De Beauvais.”
“Be it as it may, I am your debtor. I came here to-night to meet one who had pledged himself to perform a service. He has failed in his promise; will you take his place? The same means of escape shall be yours. All the precautions for his safety and sure conduct shall be taken in your behalf. I ask no pledge for the honorable discharge of what I seek at your hands, save your mere assent.”
“What is it you require of me?”
“That you deliver these letters to their several addresses; that you do so with your own hands; that when questioned, as you may be, on the state of France, you will not answer as the partisan of the Usurper.”
“I understand you. Enough: I refuse your offer. Your zeal for the cause you serve must indeed be great when it blinds you to all consideration for one placed as I am.”
“It has made me forget more, sir, far more than that, as I might prove to you, were I to tell what my life has been for two years past. But for such forgetfulness there is an ample recompense, a glorious one,—the memory of our king.” He paused at these words, and in his tremulous voice and excited gesture I could read the passion that worked within him. “Come, then; there shall be no more question of a compact between us. I ask no conditions, I seek for no benefits: you shall escape. Take my horse; my servant, who is also mounted, will accompany you to Beudron, where you will find fresh horses in readiness. This passport will prevent all interruption or delay; it is countersigned by Fouché himself. At Lisieux, which you will reach by sunset, you can leave the cattle, and the boy of the cabaret will be your guide to the Falaise de Biville. The tide will ebb at eleven o'clock, and a rocket from the sloop will be your signal to embark.”
“And for this I can render nothing in return?” said I, sadly.
“Yes. It may be that in your own country you will hear the followers of our king scoffed at and derided,—called fools or fanatics, perhaps worse. I would only ask of you to bear witness that they are at least ardent in the cause they have sworn to uphold, and firm to the faith to which they have pledged themselves. This is the only service you can render us, but it is no mean one. And now, farewell!”