The man bowed respectfully.
‘But yes, sire,’ he answered, ‘it has even now arrived. It is in the courtyard. I was hurrying to inform you when Jean-Marie called me back. He had begun to undo the wrappings, and he had made a most extraordinary discovery—a discovery both strange and startling. In the car, in the back of it, among the rugs which your honour ordered Jean-Marie to bring with him from Nantes, was a child, a little boy. The poor child seems ill; his head is gone. In short, sire, he raves; and Jean-Marie called out to me, “Go, Jacques, go quickly, and call the Vicomte; he will know what to do.” So I came, sire, as quickly as I could.’
‘So we see,’ said the Vicomte laughing. ‘Thou wert always one who loved a mystery, Jacques. Doubtless it is some little garçon who wanted a cheap ride and who now feigns illness as an excuse for his deed. But go—we will follow—and frighten the little rogue well.’
But one glance at the tiny huddled-up figure, with its flushed face and wild, unseeing eyes, showed the Vicomte that this was no case of imposture. Whatever had been the boy’s reason for concealment, whatever had been his state when he crept under the tarpaulin cover, it was evident that now he was very ill.
‘Poor little fellow! Hast thou any idea where thou pickedest him up, Jean-Marie, or how long he hath lain under that heavy covering? It may be a case of sunstroke; the heat must have been terrible.’
But Jean-Marie, who was standing in the middle of a group of his fellow-servants, gazing in amazement at the strange little passenger whom he had so unwittingly carried in his master’s new car, shook his head stupidly.
‘That I cannot tell, sire,’ he answered. ‘He could not be there when I left Nantes, because I put in the rugs and fastened up the tarpaulin just before I started; and he can scarce have got in at Dinard, the distance is too short. Mayhap he crawled in at Carhaix, for he looks like a little peasant from the mountains of Bretagne. But how he pulled down the cover over himself, and fastened it so carefully—that is what I cannot understand, sire.’
‘He is dressed like a little peasant; but I hardly think he is,’ said Mr Maxwell, who had been examining the little stowaway carefully. ‘It seems to me, Arnauld, that there is more here than meets the eye. Just listen to what he says, and his accent is as pure as mine.’
‘I am an English boy, an English boy,’ moaned Pierre, in a low monotonous voice, as if he were repeating a lesson, ‘and I am going to England. I have forgotten much, my head always feels queer; but I am going to England, and then I will remember.’
These broken sentences were repeated over and over again, and then the weak voice wandered off into a jumble of words, at the sound of which the clergyman shook his head.