“Your father has good horses; if you want to see for yourself, you can. It will be worth your while.”
“Thanks, Rampal,” said Livette.
Not for an instant did she doubt the truth of what he told her, and she said to her father:
“Go with me to the Icard farm, father, as you know the people there. Let us go to the Icard farm at once; my happiness depends on it. There is something there that I want to see to-morrow morning.”
The poor man did not understand, but he always yielded to her caprice. They set out at once for the Château d’Avignon.
They left the wagon at the château; they harnessed the best pair of horses to the cabriolet, and made seven or eight leagues without stopping.
“Thanks, father. I must be here to-morrow morning. I will tell you why——”
It was eleven o’clock at night.
When all were in bed, Livette, being familiar with “the place,” which her father had pointed out to her anew at her request,—Livette furtively left the house to prowl about the spot where disaster awaited her, for love knows no obstacles, and we follow our destiny through everything, and rush on to death in pursuit of our last sorrow.
And then?—Ah! throughout the visions of her sick-bed Livette constantly lived over that terrible moment when she was prowling around the swamp. In truth, she was still there, in agony of mind.