“Cut them, mademoiselle; cut them!” shouted the boatman.
And at intervals during that wild journey he repeated the words, unceremoniously spitting the salt water from his lips. The abbé, bending his back to the work and the waves, gave a short laugh from time to time, that had a ring in it to make Mademoiselle Brun suddenly like the man—the fighting ring of exaltation which adapts itself to any voice and any tongue. For nearly an hour they rowed in silence, while mademoiselle baled the water out, and Denise steered with steady eyes piercing the darkness.
“We are quite close to it,” she said at length; for she had long been steering towards a light that flickered feebly across the broken water.
In a few moments they were alongside, and, amidst confused shouting of orders, the two ladies were half lifted, half dragged on board. The abbé followed them.
“A word with you,” he said, taking Mademoiselle Brun unceremoniously by the arm, and leading her apart. “You will be met by friends on your arrival at St. Raphael to-morrow. And when you are free to do so, will you do me a favour?”
“Yes.”
“Find Lory de Vasselot, wherever he may be.”
“Yes,” answered Mademoiselle Brun.
“And tell him that I went to the Chateau de Vasselot and found it empty.”
Mademoiselle reflected for some moments.