“No, thank goodness! if I except the picturesque ivy-covered ruins of barbarous times, that you may yet get a glimpse of in some of our very old cities. In dear old England you may come and go into our cities and towns, and no one inquires whence you come or whither you go. The houses and cottages, gardens and fields, seem mingled together in happy liberty of situation, neither kept in by prescribed limits, or ruled by arbitrary restrictions.”
“Well,” observed Julia, with a half-sigh, “I love France, with all its faults—faults of its rulers. Providence has bestowed upon it a fine climate, and beautiful scenery, not inferior to any other country, in my poor opinion—only marred by the ambition and sad acts of its sons.”
“I trust, dear Julia,” returned Mabel, affectionately, “you do not too much regret the land we are about to leave.”
“Oh, no, my sweet Mabel,” interrupted Julia, “it is a consolation that I carry my heart with me.” There was a slight increase of colour in her cheek as she said the words, for Mabel’s expressive eyes were fixed upon hers; “fortunately I am heart-whole,” she added, with a gay laugh; “for if I left a lover behind me it would be a sad thing.”
Mabel made no reply; at that moment her thoughts were occupied. Madame Coulancourt was conversing with Madame Plessis, whilst Jean Plessis and the captain of the Ca-Ira were in close consultation. Having proceeded up the river as far as the village of Eure, the chasse-mare furled her sails and let go her anchor. It was nearly sunset, and a light-grey mist—a sign of a still, hot night—began to steal up from the water and creep lightly over the land. The row-boat, which had carefully followed them at a safe distance, saw the chasse-mare anchor, whilst yet there was flood-tide to run farther up, now pulled in shore, and Augustine Vadier and one of the crew took the road to the village, about five hundred yards from the western shore of the river.
Having reached within a short distance of the road that led up from the river to the village, they stationed themselves behind a hedge, observing every person that passed along that road.
Presently they perceived two young men, in sailor’s attire, come out from a cabaret, and take their way towards the water.
“Ha!” said Augustine Vadier, “I should say that tall one is the Master Louis Lebeau we seek.”
“Parbleu!” said the sailor, “he may be; but I know that the short one is Pierre Leveque, one of the crew of the Ca-Ira. I sailed with him several times in her, and many a jolly cargo we landed under the cliffs of Dover.”
“Then, we are both right,” said Vadier, “and it’s a very clear case, too, that they will drop down with the night’s tide and get to sea, if we don’t prevent them.”