(2)
Because it had been raining hard since ten in the morning—though now, by sunset, it had ceased—the bad road was exceedingly muddy and full of extensive pools. These it was at the moment so profoundly delighting a small male child to stir up with a twig that he did not observe the slow approach of a wayfarer, nor look up till he heard himself addressed. He then saw a tall man leaning upon a stick and wearing only one boot. He was bareheaded, wet, and very pale; but he wore a tricolour sash.
"Child," said the apparition, and its voice sounded strange and small, like the voice of Uncle Pierre when he was ill of the fever—"child, is there any house along this road . . . not far away?"
The boy was frightened, and much desired to return no answer at all, but he knew that you must not trifle with those who wore the tricolour scarf, or it would be the worse for you. So, rubbing his bare toes for solace in the delicious mud, he responded truthfully:
"Round the next corner, Citizen, you will see the old manoir of L'Estournel. But nobody lives there, and it is full of ghosts, witches, and all manner of evil things. One does not pass it after dark."
"Thank you," said the man with the tricolour. And adding solemnly, "May you live to be an ornament to your country," he gave him a silver piece and limped on. The boy watched him with open mouth till he disappeared round the bend.
It seemed to La Vireville that he had never known the possession of two sound feet; also, that he had been walking for several days, though it was only at noon that he had left the forest, which had not proved a very happy resting-place. But since then he had set he knew not how many miles between himself and Porhoët; indeed, by now he had almost lost count of direction. He was wet and hungry, while his foot was a plaster of mud, blood, and devouring pain. Finally, he was on an open road, where he little desired to find himself. But he hoped now to force an entrance into the deserted house.
Round the turn of the road he saw it at last, steep-roofed, peering greyly at him over its high wall. All round it the overgrown trees flamed with spring and sunset, and, behind, two slim poplars mounted like spires to heaven. The wall brimmed with the stems of matted creepers, and in it, sheltered in a stone archway with a living thatch of grass, was an old green door. He would go through this and rest.
As he had the thought, La Vireville's heart stood still, for he had caught the sound of many hoofs in front of him. Was he neatly trapped after all his fatigue and pain? Then at least he would not be taken alive, nor die with their accursed rag on his body! He tore off the sash and flung it into the ditch, drew behind the row of chestnuts which fringed the road—a perfectly inadequate cover—and, a hand on each pistol, waited. . . .
And they passed, at a canter, half a squadron of red hussars, looking neither to right nor left!