“You are right; still, it would be very hard for me to keep my fingers away from the rascal’s skin! But then, you have had experience; I will obey you.”
“Well, then, let us find some means of correspondence. For the future we must not be seen to have any communications with one another. See here; when I have anything to say to you I will go to the entrance door of the works, and write on the top of the gate on the left side the day and hour of the rendezvous in red pencil. For instance: ‘Tuesday, 4 o’clock.’ Then you will arrange to come round to this inn, where you will find me. If you wish to speak to me you will do the same on the other pillar on the right of the gate. I shall pass by every morning and evening to see if the rendezvous has to take place that evening or not.”
“Very good.”
“Then good-bye for the moment. When we leave here we no longer know one another. I will go now, and leave you to pay. Good luck, and keep cool!”
“I will, if possible.”
At that very hour Marcel was walking to and fro in the woods with Madame Vignola. The small terrier was running about along the path, which was so narrow that the young man and his fair companion were brought into close proximity to avoid the shooting branches which invaded the way. A feeling of languor seemed to emanate from the earth, gently warmed by the early spring sun. On reaching the edge of the plateau they halted by a rocky ledge overshadowed by large ash-trees.
The whole valley of Ars lay before them. The tile roofs of the works, the large chimney-steeple with its plume of black smoke, and the church and houses capriciously grouped, formed a smiling and delightful picture. The young woman pointed out with the end of her parasol the different parts of the panorama, and Marcel named all the points of interest visible. It was a kind of taking possession of the country under the auspices of Marcel. He said to her, with a smile—
“You are asking questions, as though you intended to settle down in these parts.”
“It is a custom of mine,” she said. “I like to know where I am, and to make inquiries about the district. Things have no meaning or interest for me unless I know their names and purposes. For instance, you point out to me down there a railway line which passes into the plain. To the fact that it is a railway I am absolutely indifferent; you add, it is the line running from Troyes to the frontier, viâ Belfort. Immediately my mind begins to work, and the precise representation given by the thing attaches my mind to the thing itself. As you see, I am of anything but a poetic nature.”