The two friends crossed the bridge; since leaving Chelles they had not met a living soul—not a peasant, not a carter, not an ass. The bridge, which was long and solidly built, was also deserted. Nor was there a sign of life on the Marne—not a boat, not a fisherman was to be seen.
But they had already observed that solitude the first time that they had come in that direction; and now that the aspect of the country was changed, the trees having renewed their foliage, the meadows their verdure, the fields their grasses and flowers, the more solitary the spot, the more inclined they were to admire all the majesty of nature, all the beauties of creation.
“Why, we were misinformed as to having to pay to cross this bridge!” said Agathe; “here we are at the end of it, and I see no one at all. Do you suppose we are to toss the sou into the water; that would be decidedly amusing.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth when a man suddenly appeared in front of her. He came from a house at the left which belonged to a beautiful estate called the Maison Blanche, of which this same man was the concierge; to this function he added that of collector of tolls at the bridge.
“Monsieur,” said Honorine, after paying her two sous, “which road must we take to go to the estate called the Tower?”
“Pass through the village of Gournay, straight ahead, then turn to the left.”
“Is it very far?”
“It’s close by. The village of Gournay’s so small that it don’t take long to walk through it; then you take the road to Noisy-le-Grand.”
The two young women walked on, and soon found themselves in the village square, where there was a pretty bourgeois house embellished with the name of the Château Vert, probably because of the color of its blinds.
Next to it was a dealer in wines, the only one in the district; which fact spoke well for the sobriety of the people.