The Vicomte was delighted. “I might have known it!” he exclaimed. “Is she pretty? How did you work on her feelings, Gilbert? I have always said that if you would condescend . . . (No, if I am not breaking your arm it is quite enough, thanks.) Did you give her a kiss? Mon Dieu, what I have missed!”
“For Heaven’s sake, be quiet!” urged Château-Foix. “It is no time for laughing. No, I did not kiss her—I should have been afraid. She is a middle-aged proprietress with a tongue, and she will allow me and the friend who has met with an accident to sleep in her loft. She asks no questions, and if we are taken, we are tramps who have sought refuge there without her knowledge. She has no servants.”
“Excellent!” said the Vicomte gaily. “You are a general and a diplomat thrown away. Still, your success remains unexplained. I am sure you must have whispered soft nothings of some sort to her. Or perhaps you bullied her; some like it, I believe. Commend me, after all, to you impervious men for managing a woman!”
“We are certainly lucky,” rejoined the Marquis, ignoring these remarks, “always supposing that she does not denounce us.”
“Denounce us! My dear Gilbert, you are too modest. It is evident to me that you have inspired une grande passion, one of those great loves of antiquity or romance. Denounce us! You may be sure that the lady will be cut in pieces rather than betray your hiding-place—in fact, after the usual fashion of heroines, she will probably have you down from your loft, push you behind the curtains in her own chaste apartment, and lock the door. The minions of the . . . of the nation arrive; you know the scene . . . outraged modesty . . . ‘Ruffians, respect at least my bedchamber! Do you dare to suggest that there is a man in there!’ . . . Delicious! I only hope it may come to that, provided I witness it.”
With these and similar excursions of the fancy did Louis beguile their pilgrimage through the first field, though he stumbled more than once, and the weight on the Marquis’ arm grew perceptibly heavier as they proceeded. By the time they were in the second field he had dropped his banter, having obviously little breath to spare, and the two plodded slowly on in silence.
“Does your shoulder pain you?” asked the Marquis suddenly, noticing his laboured breathing.
“Oh, pas trop,” was the light reply, but it was given through closed teeth. Gilbert slipped his arm round the speaker.
“Put your right arm round my neck,” he suggested, and with an attempt at a laugh Louis obeyed. “Your ideas are always excellent,” he said faintly.
Five minutes more of slow and difficult progression brought them to their goal, a collection of scattered outhouses standing in a small and apparently deserted farmyard. Their shelter loomed before them: below, the habitat of a large hay waggon; above, a loft and granary.