A wooded knoll, bordering on the forest he had noted the night before, stood on his left. Surely that was a hut amongst the trees? That of a woodsman perhaps.
At any rate, he would go and make inquiries as to the road to Varenac.
But, half-way there, a strange interruption befell—a girl's scream and a burst of rough laughter.
"Hola! hola! my pretty one. You had forgotten Bertrand. Malédiction; but I had not forgotten you. Madame was hard. Ha, ha! It does not do for the seigneurs to be too hard nowadays. By the bones of St. Efflam! How she can struggle! But I will explain, Mademoiselle. Bertrand has a grudge. V'là! v'là! It shall be repaid. Come, a kiss, my little cabbage. You are so pretty that I shall steal many, and then it may be that I shall take you with me to St. Quinton, where they have ideas about the aristos. Yes, ideas more sensible than the thickheads about here can conceive. And from St. Quinton to Paris is a pleasant journey. Té! Té! it is then that Bertrand will be amused. Click, click go the tricoteuses. Click, click, answers the 'widow.' And Sanson makes his bow to perfection. Mille diables! but it is a little fiend."
The high-pitched, chanting voice broke into a snarl over the last words.
It was evident that Mademoiselle did not allow herself to be easily captured.
But, alas! One may struggle, one may even bite in extremis, but a man's strength must surely conquer in the end.
Thus Cécile de Quernais, crying aloud in terror, had given herself up as lost, when, through the trees, came a figure, racing up the slope in hot haste.
"Ah! ah!"
"Ah! ah!"