“She puzzles me,” he muttered. “What does she want? Bon Dieu, what does she want?”
Then he spoke angrily to the driver, whose movements were slow and clumsy.
“At all events my task is easier here,” he consoled himself by saying as the carriage approached the château, “now that I am rid of these women.”
At last they reached the foot of the slope leading up to the half-ruined house, which loomed against the evening sky immediately above them; and the driver pulled up his restive horses with an air significant of arrival.
“Right up to the château,” cried the Abbé from beneath the hood.
But the man made no movement, and sat on the box muttering to himself.
“What!” cried the abbé, who had caught some words. “Jean has the evil eye! What of Jean's evil eye? Here, I will give you my rosary to put round your coward's neck. No! Then down you get, my friend. You can wait here till we come back.”
As he spoke he leapt out, and, climbing into the box, pushed the driver unceremoniously from his seat, snatching the reins and whip from his hands.
“He!” he cried. “Allons, my little ones!”
And with whip and voice he urged the horses up the slope at a canter, while the carriage swayed across from one great tree to another. They reached the summit in safety, and the priest pulled the horses up at the great door—the first carriage to disturb the quiet of that spot for nearly a generation. He twisted the reins round the whip-socket, and clambering down rang the great bell. It answered to his imperious summons by the hollow clang that betrays an empty house. No one came. He stood without, drumming with his fist on the doorpost. Then he turned to listen. Some one was approaching from the darkness of the trees. But it was only the driver following sullenly on foot.