So ruminated Simon, as he strolled through the lanes in the starlight, following, as he supposed, in the footsteps of Angelot, and preparing to lie in wait for him at some convenient corner on his return.
But when his uncle and cousin left him, disappearing into the shadows, Angelot leaped up on the bank and stood for a minute or two gazing across at Lancilly. To watch till her shadow passed by one of those lighted windows—if not to climb to some point where he might see her, herself, without breaking his word to her father and attempting to speak to her—it might cost an extra half-hour and Uncle Joseph's displeasure, perhaps. But after all, what was leaving all the rest of the world compared with leaving her, Hélène, and practically for ever? His gentle, frightened love, to whom he had promised all the strength and protection he had to give, to whom invisible cords drew him across the valley!
"No, I cannot!" Angelot said to himself. He waited for no second thoughts, but jumped down into the field beyond the bank, and did not even trouble himself to keep in the shadow while with long light strides he ran towards Lancilly.
Two hours later Monsieur Joseph was pacing up and down, wildly impatient, in front of his house. Over his head, Riette listened behind closed shutters, and heard nothing but his quick tramp, and an angry exclamation now and then against Angelot. At last Monsieur Joseph stopped short and listened. The dogs barked, but he silenced them; then came a swinging light and two figures hurrying along the shadowy footpath from La Marinière. Another instant, and Urbain's strong voice rang through the night that brooded over Les Chouettes.
"Joseph, you incorrigible old Chouan! what have you done with my boy?"
CHAPTER XXIII
A DANCE WITH GENERAL RATONEAU
All this time, and lately with her son's energetic help, Madame de Sainfoy had been arranging her rooms in the most approved fashion of the day. The new furniture was far less beautiful than the old, and far less suited to the character of the house; still, like everything belonging to the Empire, it had a severe magnificence. The materials were mahogany and gilded bronze; the forms were classical, lyres, urns, winged sphinxes everywhere. In the large salon the walls were hung with yellow silk instead of the old, despised, but precious tapestries, the long curtains that swept the floor were yellow silk, with broad bands of red and yellow and a heavy fringe of red and yellow balls. These fashions were repeated in each room in different colours, green, blue, red; a smaller salon, Madame de Sainfoy's favourite, was hung with a peculiar green flecked with gold; and for the chairs in this room she, Hélène, Mademoiselle Moineau, and the young girls were working a special tapestry with wreaths of grapes or asters, lyres, Roman heads which suggested Napoleon. Certain unaccountable stains on this fine work brought a smile long years afterwards into the lovely eyes of Hélène.
Paper and paint, innovations at Lancilly, had much to do in beautifying the old place. Dark rooms were well lit up by a white paper with a broad border of red and yellow twisted ribbons. Old stone chimneypieces, window-sills, great solid shutters, were covered thick with yellow paint.