“When we part,” he concluded heartily, “you must let me take some message from you to Ashley Court. The distance is inconsiderable, and it would give me the greatest pleasure in the world.”
“You are very kind, Monsieur,” murmured Gilbert.
“There is Candé,” broke in Louis suddenly. He had not spoken a word since the Englishman’s revelation of his domicile.
They all pulled up, while Trenchard and the Marquis debated whether they should enter the little place or no, and finally agreed that the night could well be spent in a thick clump of pine trees some quarter-mile off the road, but that the Marquis was to push on a little towards Candé with the intention of making a sort of reconnaissance and also of procuring further provisions.
Nineteen hours on a bad horse had not improved the condition of Louis’ wounded shoulder, but he was not particularly occupied with the curious little shoots of pain along the top of his left arm as he sat in the fir wood with his back against a tree, and looked at Trenchard, busy with the horses at a short distance. For as he gazed at him he detached him from his surroundings, and saw him riding up the wide sweep of carefully gravelled avenue that led to Ashley Court, with a letter from Gilbert to Lucienne in his pocket. That Gilbert would send a letter he did not doubt. It seemed to Louis as if, armed with the overwhelming desire which swept through him, it would not be impossible by sheer force of will to dispossess Trenchard’s spirit from its habitation, and himself journey to England in its place. He shut his eyes and put his head back against the fir bole. His mind, wrenched from its moorings by physical fatigue and pain, was floating away from his control, and seemed to him to be curiously independent of his body. Scene after scene of the last few days swept mistily through his mind, but all the time, at the back of them, was some thought which he was reaching after and could not grasp. At last, quite abruptly, it formulated itself, and fell, as it were, into his hand, and he held it, a tangible object, for a moment in his palm. He, too, could send a letter to Lucienne.
The blood leaped in his veins, and he opened his eyes and saw Trenchard beside him.
“I thought you might be asleep,” said the Englishman half apologetically.
“I believe I was dozing,” responded Louis.
“You would be more comfortable lying down.”
“I suppose I should,” returned Saint-Ermay; but he made no movement, and continued to gaze at Trenchard so intently that the latter began to feel somewhat uncomfortable.