“Didn’t you know he came right back, as soon as he give you the slip?” asked Ba’tiste. “I ferried him over again not an hour gone.”
“Why,” I cried in surprise, “I thought he was on his way to the Black Abbé!”
Ba’tiste smiled wisely.
“He lied!” said he. “You don’t know that lot yet, Master Paul. I saw you listened careless-like, but I thought you knew that was all lies about the Black Abbé and Vaurin being at Pereau. If they’d been at Pereau ‘The Ferret’ would ha’ said they were at Piziquid.”
“I’m an ass!” I exclaimed bitterly.
Ba’tiste laughed.
“That’s not the name you get hereabouts, Master Paul. But I reckon you’ve been used to dealing with honest men.”
“I believe I do trust too easily, my friend,” said I. “But one thing I know, and that is this: I will make never a mistake in trusting you, and some other faithful friends whom I might name.”
This seemed to Ba’tiste too obvious to need reply, so he merely wished me good fortune as I sprang ashore and made haste up the trail.
I made haste—but alas, not back toward Grand Pré! In the bitter after-days I had leisure to curse the obstinate folly which led me to carry out my plan of delay instead of hurrying straight to Yvonne’s side. But I had made up my mind that the best time to return to De Lamourie’s was about the end of evening—and my dull wits failed to see in Le Fûret’s action any sufficient cause to change my plans. It never occurred to me, conceited fool that I was, that the causes which had swayed the Black Abbé to my will the night before might in the meantime have ceased to work. Even had this idea succeeded in penetrating my thick apprehension, I suppose it would have made no difference. I should have felt sure that the abbé’s scoundrel crew would choose none but the dim hours after midnight for anything their malice might intend. The fact is, I had been yielding to inauthoritative impulses and vague premonitions till the reaction had set in, determining me to be at all costs coolly reasonable. Now Fortune with her fine irony loves to emphasize the fact that the slave of reason often proves the most pitiable of fools. Such was I when I turned to my right from the ferry, and strode through the scented, leafy dusk to the open flax-fields of the Le Marchand settlement, though the disregarded monitor within me was urging that I should turn to the left, through the old beech woods, to Grand Pré—and Yvonne.