So the meeting broke up without romance, and the conspirators dispersed to their homes, carrying in their minds that mutual distrust which is ever awakened in human hearts by the chink of gold, while the dormant national readiness to detect betrayal by England was suddenly wide awake.
Nevertheless, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence had supplied the one ingredient necessary to leaven the talk of these dreamers into action. Even the notary found himself compelled to contribute when Albert de Chantonnay asked him outright for a subscription. And the priests, ably led by the Abbé Touvent, acted after the manner of the sons of Levi since olden times. They did not give themselves, but they told others to give, which is far better.
In due course the money was sent to England. It was the plain truth that the Marquis de Gemosac had not sufficient in his pocket to equip Loo Barebone with the clothes necessary to a seemly appearance in France; or, indeed, to cover the expense of the journey thither. Dormer Colville never had money to spare. “Heaven shaped me for a rich man,” he would say, lightly, whenever the momentous subject was broached, “but forgot to fill my pockets.”
It was almost the time of the vintage, and the country roads were dotted with the shambling figures of those knights of industry who seem to spring from the hedgerows at harvest-time in any country in the world, when the Abbé Touvent sought out Marie in her cottage at the gates of the château.
“A la cave” answered the lady’s voice. “In the cellar—do you not know that it is Monday and I wash?”
The Abbé did not repeat his summons on the kitchen table with the handle of his stick, but drew forward a chair.
“I know it is very hot, and that I am tired,” he shouted toward the cellar door, which stood open, giving egress to a warm smell of soap.
“Precisely—and does Monsieur l’Abbé want me to come up as I am?”
The suggestion was darkly threatening, and the Abbé replied that Marie must take her time, since it was washing-day.
The cottage was built on sloping ground at the gate of the château, probably of the stones used for some earlier fortification. That which Marie called the cellar was but half underground, and had an exit to the garden which grew to the edge of the cliff. It was not long before she appeared at the head of the stone steps, a square-built woman with a face that had been sunburnt long ago by work in the vineyards, and eyes looking straight at the world from beneath a square and wrinkled forehead.