“But she has been gone more than an hour,” cried Madame Michaud.
Alarm was in all faces. The abbe ran towards the pavilion, examining the state of the road, while Michaud, impelled by the same thought, went up the path towards Conches.
“Good God! she fell here,” said Michaud, returning from a place where the footsteps stopped near the brook, to that where they had turned in the road, and pointing to the ground, he added, “See!”
The marks were plainly seen of a body lying at full length on the sandy path.
“The footprints which have entered the wood are those of some one who wore knitted soles,” said the abbe.
“A woman, then,” said the countess.
“Down there, by the broken pitcher, are the footsteps of a man,” added Michaud.
“I don’t see traces of any other foot,” said the abbe, who was tracking into the wood the prints of the woman’s feet.
“She must have been lifted and carried into the wood,” cried Michaud.
“That can’t be, if it is really a woman’s foot,” said Blondet.