“Edmée hesitated.
”‘Dear Pierrot,’ she said, ‘I think perhaps if I were to say a little prayer to the good God to help and save us, it would make me leave off trembling so.’
“Pierre answered by uncovering his head, and then, at a sign from Edmée, he knelt down beside her on the grass, for they had crept back behind the house, and there the two young creatures prayed with earnest and simple words for the help they so sorely needed—‘or,’ whispered Edmée, ‘if we do not escape, for courage to bear whatever is before us.’
“Then she rose to her feet.
”‘I am not trembling now,’ she said. ‘Pierrot dear, kiss me once before we go; for we don’t know, we may fail.’
“Pierrot kissed her; he could not have spoken had he tried.
“He led the way to the barn. Pierre crept in first to reconnoitre; all was quiet, and as he had left it, he reported, when he crept out again, bringing his own and Edmond’s bundles, which, with her bag, he and Edmée carried a little way into the shelter of the wood hard by, so that the girl’s hands might be free, if need were, to help him with the much more troublesome piece of baggage—Edmond. Then they both made their way in again, Edmée standing a little aside, while Pierre, by the very faint moonlight which came in through the open doorway, satisfied himself as to the exact position in which Edmond lay, before attempting to gag and seize him. How he succeeded he could never himself tell, but succeed he did. Before the sleeping boy had recovered his faculties sufficiently to attempt to scream or to make any resistance, he was safe and fast in Pierre’s strong arms, his mouth so firmly gagged that, though he was scarlet, nay purple, with rage and terror long before he found out the real state of the case, not the faintest sound was audible, as, followed by Edmée, young Germain, with his heavy burden, made his way from the barn by the path behind the house, which they had already discovered led into the woods. More than once Edmée tried to whisper into Edmond’s ear, but blinded and confused as he was she could not catch his attention.
”‘Better wait awhile,’ whispered Pierre, and it was not till after quite a quarter of an hour of this painful progress that he at last stopped, and, after listening in all directions, let Edmond slip to the ground, though still firmly holding him. The boy opened his eyes; he had half lost consciousness, and Pierre began to loosen the handkerchief.
”‘Edmond,’ said Edmée, though still in a whisper, ‘it is we—Pierre and I. Don’t you know us?’ But Edmond shivered convulsively, and it was some minutes—minutes of most precious time—before Edmée and Pierre together could get him to understand all that had passed. Then he burst into tears, blaming himself as the cause of the terrible risk they had run, thanking them both for saving his life, and entreating their forgiveness. It was a great relief that his excitement had taken this form,—Edmée had been secretly terrified that he would perhaps have turned upon Pierre in a rage at him for having employed force, even to save his life,—for it was easy to make him do whatever they wished. He soon recovered himself enough to get on to his feet, and with Pierre on one side and Edmée on the other, to make his way deeper and deeper into the recesses of the forest. It was their best chance. Pierre’s experience served as a guide, even though with these special woods he was unacquainted, and he was able to direct their steps ever towards Valmont, though plunging very much further into the forest than he intended. And for some days they did not venture to leave its friendly shelter. What did they live upon? you will ask, as I have often asked my mother when she has been relating to me the history of these strange days. Very little, it seems to me. Pierre managed, two or three times, to get a loaf from one of the wood-cutters’ cottages they passed at long intervals, but which he never dared approach near, except by himself. He used to hide his companions and then, whistling lightly, as if on an ordinary journey of a few hours, would knock at the cottage door and ask for some bread, as he was hungry and had some distance to go; but not much of the bread fell to his share, you may be sure. Once or twice he got a few eggs, which he cooked on a fire of dry wood, and which Edmée thought delicious, for there is no sauce like hunger! The nights they spent, in part, in walking, when there was light enough to see their way, for it was cold work lying on the beds of dead leaves they collected, with the scanty spare clothing that was all their bundles contained; and had the weather not been exceptionally fine, and even mild for October, my mother has always maintained they would never have got to Valmont alive. It was that thought—the thought that they were near their journey’s end—that kept up their hearts through this, so much the most painful part of the journey. For even when so near home that a few hours in a passing diligence would have safely landed them within a league of Valmont, they dared not venture on the high road.
“It was a forlorn little group which at last, late one evening,—they had purposely concealed themselves till late in the woods hard by, ‘our own woods,’ said Edmée and Pierre joyously, where to the boy every path, every tree almost, had been familiar from infancy,—approached the forester’s cottage at the extreme end of the village. They had not ventured to pass along the main street, but made a round which brought them in by the other side; for since their terrible fright Pierre had grown doubly cautious.