The baron took Edouard’s hand and tried to allay his grief, although it was easy to see that he was no less affected himself. Alfred rose; he examined the place where they were, and, noticing the staircase, said to Charlot:
"You have another room upstairs?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I suppose it looks on the narrow path by which we came; could we rest more comfortably there than here?"
Without awaiting the old shepherd’s reply, Alfred went to the upper room, but he found it empty, and came sadly down again, seated himself by his companions and said:
"We shall be quite as comfortable here."
"This part of the mountains is quite unfrequented," said the baron. "How do you manage to live here?"
"I go to the village and buy bread enough to last ten days."
"What a dismal place to live in!" said Alfred. "How in the deuce can a man make up his mind to pass his life here?"
"Poor Isaure!" said Edouard, "who knows that you are not living in some hovel as wretched as this? Three weeks have passed already since you were torn away from our love, and no indication,—nothing to lead us to hope that we are on the track of your abductors!"