The old man made two interminable waits, during which he ground dozens of knives. Then, at last, he went away by a quite different road, which ran in the direction of Crozant and the market-town of Éguzon.
Beautrelet followed him along this road. But he had not walked five minutes before he received the impression that he was not alone in shadowing the old fellow. A man was walking along between them, stopping at the same time as Charel and starting off again when he did, without, for that matter, taking any great precautions against being seen.
“He is being watched,” thought Beautrelet. “Perhaps they want to know if he stops in front of the walls—”
His heart beat violently. The event was at hand.
The three of them, one behind the other, climbed up and down the steep slopes of the country and arrived at Crozant, famed for the colossal ruins of its castle. There Charel made a halt of an hour’s duration. Next he went down to the riverside and crossed the bridge.
But then a thing happened that took Beautrelet by surprise. The other man did not cross the river. He watched the old fellow move away and, when he had lost sight of him, turned down a path that took him right across the fields.
Beautrelet hesitated for a few seconds as to what course to take, and then quietly decided. He set off in pursuit of the man.
“He has made sure,” he thought, “that Gaffer Charel has gone straight ahead. That is all he wanted to know and so he is going—where? To the castle?”
He was within touch of the goal. He felt it by a sort of agonizing gladness that uplifted his whole being.
The man plunged into a dark wood overhanging the river and then appeared once more in the full light, where the path met the horizon.