“That was my second cousin, Michel,” observed the younger sister to Louis. And she added, somewhat unnecessarily: “He was drunk.”
The Percheron horse did not exert himself unduly up hills, and the miles rolled past but slowly. The sun was very hot, but the vehicle contained a large faded green umbrella, which the cousins held in turn over the heads of their respective partners. The heat, the hard seat, and the jogging made Gilbert feel tired and sleepy, but Louis kept up an animated conversation with both damsels at once. Occasionally he declared that the captive duck was biting large pieces out of his legs, a witticism which had enormous success. But in the end, despite the hilly road and the horse-flies, they reached the turning to Saint-Ouen. Great were the leave-takings; but the white caps, with many a backward turn, dwindled at last along the side road.
“Goddesses with the machine!” yawned Louis. “Good heavens! how thirsty I am!”
“No wonder,” retorted the Marquis. “And yet you complain of my talking too much to M. Maillard, a really intelligent man.”
“I was paying our fare,” said Louis, yawning again. “One had to do something. Would you rather have kissed them? Let’s get into the wood; this sun makes one damned sleepy.” He thrust his arm into Gilbert’s, and pulled him into the shade.
The road to Sillé-le-Guillaume lay through the heart of the forest—a matter of some four miles, so they had been told. It was now six o’clock; there was more than enough time to get to Sillé by dusk—time enough, in fact, to push on to Evron some eight miles beyond, had either of them had the inclination to do so. But, as Louis pointed out with some eloquence, the most sensible thing to do would be to lie down and rest in the wood. He was obviously tired, and Gilbert himself confessed to feeling weary. So they left the main road and plunged along a by-path until, finding a suitable tree, they threw themselves down beneath it.
The green coolness, after the hot hilly road and the day’s persistent sun, was delicious. In five minutes Louis was asleep. Gilbert studied him for a little, flung at his ease on the moss; yes, he looked too serenely unconscious for treachery. And how had he dared to put the letters of that terrible word near those of Lucienne’s name . . . how had he dared to! But the fatigue which, in quickening his mental vision, had begun to bring a hundred pictures of her, finally overpowered its own work, and he fell fast asleep.
He woke with a start, to find their late positions reversed, for Louis, wide awake, was sitting with his hands clasped round his knees regarding him with an air of amusement.
“I wouldn’t wake you,” he observed, “but do you know how long we’ve slept? We have been here nearly two hours.”
The long July day was dying rapidly now, was dead rather, and the two walked along under the trees agreeably enough, until they came to an unexpected and perplexing fork in the road. After due discussion they took the left-hand turning instead of keeping straight on, found after a time that they had strayed into a by-way, but persevered, and emerged, a little before nine o’clock, on another high-road. Along this, a few hundred yards to the right of them, shone the lights of a tiny village, which was obviously not Sillé. A passing rustic informed them that the hamlet was Pézé-le-Robert, and the road the highway from Beaumont-sur-Sarthe to Sillé-le-Guillaume.