CHAPTER XXVII
HOW MONSIEUR JOSEPH WENT OUT INTO THE DAWN
At Les Chouettes, in those early hours of the morning, they were waiting for Angelot's return. Monsieur Joseph, the softest-hearted, most open-natured man who ever posed as a dark and hard conspirator, could not now forgive himself for having sent the boy away. "Why did I not go myself?" he muttered. Faithfulness to the cause, honour towards César d'Ombré, a touch of severity, really born of love, towards Angelot's light-hearted indifference; these had led him into something like cruelty towards the girl who had been thrown with such wild and passionate haste into Angelot's arms. Monsieur Joseph regarded Hervé de Sainfoy's sudden action as a great embarrassment for the family, though he himself had once suggested such a marriage, out of indulgence for his nephew. He saw that the situation would be terribly awkward for Urbain and Anne, that they would hardly welcome such a daughter-in-law; yet, though he said sharp words about women to Angelot, he was heartily sorry for Hélène.
"Pauvre petite!" he said to himself. "No, it was not right of Hervé. Ange is too young for such responsibility; there might have been other ways of saving her. But in the meanwhile, she is dreadfully frightened and lonely, and I have sent her little lover away. God grant he fall into no traps—but the police may be anywhere. Well, Riette must do her best—the woman-child—she seemed to me just now older than Angelot's wife—Angelot's wife—what an absurdity!"
The child had led the girl away to her own room above; the house was still. Monsieur Joseph went back to his room, walked up and down its length, from the west to the east window and back again; rather nervously examined his arms, and laid a sword and a pair of pistols on the table. He knew of no special danger; but for the last fortnight he had been living in a state of watchfulness which had sharpened all his senses and kept him unusually sleepless. Now he longed for the night to be over; for his present charge weighed upon him heavily. It was certain that in sending Angelot away to keep the tryst with César he had made himself responsible for Hélène. He thought over all the foolish little love-story, in which at first he had had some part, though nobody was more angry with Angelot when he took things into his own hands and climbed the old ivy-tree to visit his love.
"And now—is the fellow rewarded or punished? we shall see!" he thought. "In any case, I must stand by him now. He has not always been grateful or wise—but there, he is young, and I love the boy. Riette talks of 'the last drop of our blood.' Verily, I believe she would give it for Angelot—and I—well, I told Hervé and his mother that I would cut off my right hand for him. That was saying something! But Anne knew I meant it—and God knows the same."
Monsieur Joseph glanced up at the Crucifix hanging over his bed, and, presently, seeing a glimmer of dawn through the shutters, knelt down and said his morning prayers.
He had scarcely finished when all the dogs began to bark, and there was a frightful growling and snarling outside his window. He opened it, and pushed back the shutters. The woods were grey and misty in a pale, unearthly dawn, and the house threw a shadow from the waning moon, which had risen behind the buildings and trees to the east. The howling wind of the night had gone down; the air was cold and still.
Monsieur Joseph saw a man with his head tied up, armed with a police carbine, making a short cut over the grass from the western wood. It was this man, Simon, whom the dogs were welcoming after their manner. Monsieur Joseph's voice silenced them. He stepped out, unarmed as he was, and met Simon in the sandy square.
"Ah no, no, my friend!" he said. "Your tricks are over, your work is done."