Presently, however, she cried: “Oh, Léon, there is the bridge!”
“Did you expect to see it anywhere else?”
Generally she was quick to detect the smallest cloud of displeasure, but now she said only: “He might have been on it.”
Léon shrugged his shoulders.
“We must cross,” she said, decidedly. “I cannot help hoping that he has gone off to the village.”
“I could have told you so much long ago. He has gone off to the village, and is as safe as if he were in the château.”
“You don’t know—you only think. And if he has found him, why has not Jean brought him back?”
“Jean is a fool. It is all his fault,” grumbled the young master.
The bridge was a slight wooden structure, flung across the broad river for the convenience of the Beaudrillarts. On the other side lay the scattered cottages of a little hamlet, the apple orchards and vineyards already spoken of; while higher up a stone bridge spanned the river, available, as this was not, for carts and carriages. Beyond, you saw a white church. The people were poor, but could hardly be miserably so in a part of France where both soil and climate were gracious; ignorant and uneducated, but frugal and industrious. Most of the families had lived in their homes longer than the longest memories stretched back, and, with many, service with the Beaudrillarts still remained an hereditary custom.
Nathalie, when she reached the bridge, involuntarily slackened her steps. Any one who watched her closely would have seen that the hand which grasped the rail trembled, and that her eyes fastened themselves fearfully upon the swift-flowing river beneath. Once she cried out, and stopped. “Eh? What is it?” asked Léon, advancing, startled.