“But Marguerite shook her head.
”‘There will always be a home for you at Valmont,’ added Edmée, ‘and we will always pray for you, dear Marguerite.’
”‘Ah,’ said the poor girl, ‘you may do that. Your prayers may be heard; mine have never been answered.’
“And with these words she turned away, and was lost to sight.
“At first all happened as their protectress had said. The sergeant at the gates let them pass with some rough good-natured words loudly spoken, as if he never supposed them to be other than their papers and Pierre’s explanation represented them to be—two peasant lads and their sister making their way back to their friends in the country, as many of the better class poor, getting shocked at the state of things in Paris, were glad to do at that time. And after directing them to Choisy-le-roi, a second thought seemed to strike him. ‘I can do more than that,’ he said. ‘Here Jean, Choisy is your road. Show these little citizens the way,’ and up started a man, young or old they could not tell, for they never saw his face, which seemed muffled up, nor did he speak all the way. And they never knew who he was, nor for what motive he had rendered them this service.
“At Choisy-le-roi they spent the night with the old woman who seemed to be expecting them. Before daybreak they were some miles further on their way to Bretigny, the first stage, one might say, on the road home, driven in a cart by a boy, the grandson of the old woman, and accustomed to take her eggs into Paris for the market. Some days of pretty steady travelling followed; the weather was fine, fortunately, for had it not been so, the poor children were but scantily protected; and Edmond kept up better than they could have hoped. Edmée herself, during those first days, was scarcely conscious of fatigue, or even of anxiety. She felt as if in a dream, and constantly expected to wake and find herself again in the wretched lodgings, beside her mother. The thought of that mother, of the terrible parting from all that was left of her, possessed her to such an extent, that for herself she would have felt no fear, hardly emotion of any kind had they been seized and carried back to Paris. Pierre was sometimes frightened by her very quietness; it was unlike her to be so dreamy and silent, even in sorrow, and more than once he endeavoured to rouse her by reminding her that she must not let herself fall ill. ‘We are obeying the dear Countess,’ he said. ‘Her last thought was for you—the only comfort of those last moments was the belief that you would yet be safe at Valmont.’
”‘I know it was so,’ said Edmée. ‘Yes, Pierre, my kind Pierrot, you are right. I will try to wish what she did.’
“But before they had reached the longed-for end of their journey, danger came so near them that all the girl’s faculties were roused, and, terrible as it was, she has sometimes said to me that she thought this very experience saved her from falling into a sort of half-stupid, almost idiotic state, from which she might never have recovered. For till now, there had been nothing to make them realise along what a precipice-brink they were moving. Once out of Paris, both Edmée and her cousin had imagined themselves safe, and the girl had yielded to her overpowering sorrow, the boy to his grief, not less sincere, but less unselfish than hers. But for wide-awake, practical Pierre what would have become of them?
“It happened thus: it was, as Marguerite had foreseen, the fault of Edmond.
“One evening—they had been travelling, sometimes on foot and sometimes in a cart or in one of the public coaches, running short distances—they would not of course have ventured to take places right through to Tours, the nearest point to Valmont for the regular diligences—one evening they reached a village not very far from Sarinet. Pierre had judged it wise to skirt Sarinet, both because Edmond might have been recognised, and also out of pity for the boy, to spare his feelings as much as possible, and as they were now in a part of the country he thoroughly knew, he found it easy to make their way round at what he thought a safe distance. But they had had a long day’s walk before they arrived weary and foot-sore at a village where Pierre had decided to spend the night. There was a small inn in the village—a while ago Pierre would have been horrified at the idea of Edmée’s entering such a place, but he had grown used to the necessity of such things, and the young girl never by word or glance murmured or seemed to notice the roughness and coarseness to which she was for the first time exposed. Pierre bespoke a bed for his ‘sister,’ and a corner of the barn for himself and Edmond, and then they sat down in the rude kitchen to such a supper as could be provided for them. There were one or two peasants drinking in a corner, but quietly enough, when suddenly the door was pushed roughly open, and a couple of men in blouses came noisily in, shouting for something to drink. The innkeeper’s wife, a timid, civil woman, hurried forward, but before she had time to serve the new-comers, one of them came up to the fire-place, near where the three young strangers were seated, and kicked the burning logs with his foot. Some embers flew out, and a spark or two lighted on Edmée’s dress, though she at once extinguished it. But up started Edmond.