“Horrors! it’s that old woman!” he exclaimed. “Here, sit down, and give me your hair-ribbon or something!” He seized the comb from his cousin’s hand and pushing him into a chair, began upon Gilbert’s black locks with rather malicious energy as, in response to the Marquis’s permission, the housekeeper bore in his coffee and rolls. The door had hardly shut behind her ere Château-Foix snatched at the comb.
“Thank Heaven that I am not usually in your power like this!” he ejaculated. “I should certainly cut my hair à la Titus to escape your ministrations. No, thanks, I’ll tie it myself. Have you had breakfast?”
Louis nodded. “Ages ago—with that charmer. Shall I give you yours?”
And the Marquis, as he tied his hair, looked at the young man pouring out the coffee in the little prim room. If Louis’ facility for playing at being boys in a story of adventure, when they were grown men in real and grave peril, had caused him apprehension, and would probably cause it again, yet at this moment, in the morning sunshine, he liked him for it. Perhaps, in some subtle way, he felt that he was offering his cousin amends for his suspicions.
Three-quarters of an hour later, when, after an almost affectionate leave-taking of his host, he entered the yard of the principal inn with Louis, the sense of peril returned upon him vividly, and was not without its effect on the Vicomte. For two, three, four National Guards in succession were getting into the Bellême and Mamers diligence. The travellers’ eyes met.
“It is too risky,” said Gilbert in a low voice. “We must ride or walk, and get a conveyance further on.” To give countenance to their entry into the yard he enquired the time of the diligence back to Verneuil, and also contrived to elicit the fact that by avoiding the high-road and taking a cross-country route they could shorten their way, and cut off Bellême altogether. On reflection Gilbert judged it more prudent not to hire saddle-horses, and they set out on foot along the narrow road.
“Now you see how providential it was that I lost the baggage,” observed Louis, as they swung along. “But we are coming down in the world. First a post-chaise, then the diligence, and now the human foot. I wonder where we shall sleep to-night—as tramps, in a barn, I should surmise.”
He little knew how prophetic was his jest.
“If we really looked like tramps,” retorted the Marquis, “I daresay it might be better for us. I wish our clothes were not so new and respectable.”
“Roll in the dust, then,” suggested his cousin. “Or slit your coat with your penknife. We might have pawned these things at Mortagne. I should love to be disguised as a sans-culotte, for I am tired of being so neat and sober in this raiment of your choice. And meanwhile—though as your servant it is no concern of mine—as what do you propose to pass yourself off, supposing some patriot insists on knowing your station in life? You can’t, with any prospect of being believed, say you are a bricklayer, or a carter.”