The offer of a piece of money induced him to come a little nearer.
“You are on the summit of the mountain, Monsieur,” said he; “and exactly on the boundary line. Here is France; there is Savoy.”
“And what is the nearest village?”
“On the Savoyard side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche; on the French side, Saint-Pavin.”
So after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not a league from the inn.
Appalled by this discovery, he remained for a moment undecided which course to pursue.
What did it matter? Why should the doomed hesitate? Do not all roads lead to the abyss into which they must sink?
He remembered the gendarmes that the innkeeper’s wife had warned him against, and slowly and with great difficulty descended the steep mountainside leading down to France.
He was near Saint-Pavin, when, before an isolated cottage, he saw a pretty peasant woman spinning in the sunshine.
He dragged himself toward her, and in weak tones begged her hospitality.