They were not far away. That dust above the road from the sea hung over a column winding triumphantly along, with a string of country carts in its midst piled high with the cases and barrels which, since dawn, they had been receiving from the English sailors on the beach at Sainte-Brigitte. The Chouans were intoxicated with their success; had they not yesterday, before ever arriving at the little bay, routed what seemed to them a huge body of Blues; had not hostile cavalry, too, broken harmlessly during the night on the covering force which M. le Marquis had so wisely stationed on the road to protect his operations? Vaguely they themselves realised that they had been brilliantly handled, and assented without hesitation to the opinion of hardbitten veterans of former wars like Sans-Souci and Fleur d’Epine when they said, “We have a great general—another Charette, perhaps.”
At the head of his victorious array, rather weary from strain and want of sleep, his right arm still in a sling, but erect and easy as ever, rode Gaston de Trélan on the beautiful black horse which had once been Marthe de la Vergne’s. By his side was M. du Ménars, and the two were already discussing the best method of distributing the muskets and ammunition through the department, and how far they would meet their needs till the gold of Mirabel could procure more.
“Still, this is an excellent beginning,” observed M. du Ménars contentedly. “We shall be in soon now. . . . I wonder if we shall find any news of de Brencourt when we get back? His disappearance at this juncture is the most inexplicable thing I ever heard of. Has it occurred to you, Marquis, that it might conceivably be the result of foul play?”
His leader looked round at him, evidently startled. Du Ménars knew that he had had very little time for any speculation about his missing subordinate.
“Foul play?” he ejaculated. “No, I had not thought of that. I know no more than you why . . . My God!”
And his horse suddenly bounded forward as if he had unconsciously driven in the spurs. Checking him, he turned his head sharply aside, then addressed his aide-de-camp over his shoulder.
“Monsieur de Céligny, have the goodness to ride back till you come to the Abbé, and tell him that I must speak to him at once. I will wait for him here, by the side of the road. Don’t halt the column, du Ménars; go on and I will catch you up.”
And as Roland turned to obey he rode across to the side of the road, and sat there waiting while the ranks trudged past. In these, sooner or later, would come the Abbé, who always marched with the men. At last the priest came abreast, and stepping aside, stood by the black horse and its rider, while the loaded carts and their escort passed. When the embroidered jacket, baggy breeches and wide-brimmed hat of the last Chouan had gone by, his foster-brother swung off his steed. His face was fearfully stern.
“Pierre,” he said in a voice unlike his own, “a terrible thought has just come to me. I cannot understand why I have not had it earlier. As de Brencourt knew my wife in the old days,” he paused; the priest guessed only too well what was coming, “—as he knew her personally, he must have been aware that she was alive—was at Mirabel—and . . . deliberately kept the knowledge from me!”
The priest looked down at the dusty road. “I am afraid that he did, Gaston.”