But I was to see no more of him that day. After a pleasant interview with Machault, whence I departed with my pockets the heavier for some rentals paid ungrudgingly to the Sieur de Briart, I continued my way alone, my mind altogether at ease as to the house of De Lamourie, since I had learned that the Black Abbé and the blacker Vaurin would lie that night at Pereau. Then suddenly, as I was about to turn into the yard of another farmhouse, one of those strange things happened which we puzzle over for a time and afterward set down among the unaccountable. Some force, within or without, turned me sharp about and faced me back toward Grand Pré. Before I realized at all what I was up to, I was retracing my steps toward the ferry. But with an effort I stopped to take counsel with myself.
Chapter XIII
Unwilling to be Wise
At first I was for mocking and laughing down so blind a propulsion, but then the thought that it was in some sort an outward expression of my great desire for Yvonne compelled me to take it with sobriety. Possibly, indeed, it meant that she was thinking of me, needing me even, at the moment; and at this I sprang forward in fierce haste lest I should be too late for the ferry. I was not going to follow blindly an impulse which I could not quite comprehend. I would not be a plaything of whims and vapours. But I would so far yield as to get safely upon the Grand Pré side of the river, pay a visit or two there which I had intended deferring to next day, and return to De Lamourie’s about bed-time, too late to invite another rebuff from Yvonne. This compromise gave me peace of mind, but did not delay my pace. I was back at the ferry in a few minutes, in time to see old yellow Ba’tiste fastening up the scow as a sign that ferrying was over till next tide.
I rushed down to him with a vehemence which left no need of words. Dashing through the waterside strip of red and glistening mud I sprang upon the scow, and cried:
“If ever you loved me, Ba’tiste,—if ever you loved my father before me,—one more trip! I must be in Grand Pré to-night if I have to swim!”
His lean, yellow, weather-tanned face wrinkled shrewdly, and he cast off again without a moment’s hesitation, saying heartily as he did so:
“If it only depended on what I could do for you, Master Paul, your will and your way would right soon meet.”
“I always knew I could count on you, Ba’tiste,” said I warmly, watching with satisfaction the tawny breadth of water widen out between the shore and the rear of the scow, as the ferryman strained rhythmically upon the great oar. I sniffed deep breaths of the cool, contenting air which blew with a salty bitterness from the uncovering flats; and I dimly imagined then what now I know, that when the breath of the tide flats has got into one’s veins at birth he must make frequent return to them in after-life, or his strength will languish.
“So you got wind, Master Paul, of Le Fûret’s return, and thought well to keep on his track, eh?” panted Ba’tiste.
“What do you mean?” I asked, awakened from my reverie.