Swiftly and noiselessly the man undid one of the cords that fastened down the tarpaulin cover, and, lifting one corner of it, he helped Pierre to climb up on the soft tired wheel, and crawl under it, and drop down into the deep well of the car, which was shaped something like a wagonette. The space between the seats was almost filled with soft rolls of cloth, horse-wraps they seemed to be; but Pierre managed to squeeze in among them, and, with the man’s help, to make himself a very comfortable little nest.
‘That is good,’ whispered the peasant triumphantly. ‘Thou wilt lie there as comfortably as my little piglets in their tub, and the good God, I doubt not, will find a way for thee to creep out unobserved when thou reachest Dinard. Thou must trust to thy brains to know when thou hast arrived there. And see, I have remembered thy breakfast and thy dinner. Catch,’ and he tossed down a parcel of bread and cheese into Pierre’s lap. ‘Now, little one,’ he said ‘I must shut thee up, and say adieu, and wish thee a good voyage; and if ever thou passest through the mountains again, do not forget to ask for Baptiste Guinaud and his wife Marie.—The saints preserve him!’ he said to himself as he fastened down the tarpaulin cover once more, and turned in the direction of the outhouse. ‘I scarce know if I have done right in letting him go. But he is one of God’s Innocents, and Monsieur the Curé says that for such there is special protection. I love not the reports I hear of the institution at Châteauneuf for such as he. They were none too kind to my cousin’s grandmother when she had the misfortune to require to be taken there. And if the lad be English, as he says he is, they will know better what to do with him in Dinard or St Malo, where there are many English people, than a poor man like me. Anyhow, the good God guard him! say I, and I know that Marie would say the same if she were here.’
CHAPTER XX.
MONSIEUR THE VICOMTE DE CHOISIGNY.
IT was just after lunch, and Monsieur the Vicomte de Choisigny had drunk his coffee, which in summer was always carried out to a table in a vine-covered arbour, just by the window of the great salon, and was walking up and down the terrace, carrying on an animated discussion with a friend of his.
The Vicomte was a dark-haired, lively little Frenchman, who, all the time he was talking, shrugged his shoulders and made signs with his fingers as if he found that his tongue alone could not express all he meant it to express.
The man who walked beside him, his arm linked in his, was utterly unlike him. From his dress one could see at once that he was a clergyman, and from an indescribable something in his whole appearance one could also tell that he was an Englishman. He was tall and slight, with iron-gray hair, and a clean-shaven, delicate face, which, however, was shrewd and kindly, but which seemed to tell a tale of strenuous and trying work.
No two men could have presented a greater contrast to each other, and yet the two were bosom friends. They had been at Oxford together, for Arnauld de Choisigny was a Protestant, a descendant of an old Huguenot family, and his father had wished him to be educated at an English university, so they had played in the same cricket matches and pulled in the same boat; and although their ways in life had lain far apart the old friendship still existed as close and true as ever.