In a daze Le Muet accepted the courtesy. What a surprise! Here, in a Uhlan uniform, was the peddler, Woerth, who had travelled the countryside for many a year. He had not been seen for a long time, and now—Le Muet grinned in response. The peddler had done him many a kindness, and tramped the woods with him more times than once: a sharp-faced, thin man, with white-lashed blue eyes.
He sat down at the table again as they dipped their cans into the soup pot and divided the loaf. With a careless air the peddler knocked in the head of the cider cask, and filled three glasses. Le Muet began to feel at his ease. After all, he knew the peddler, and if this was war, surely it was not an affair of bloodshed; one sat at the table with an old friend and drank cider. He could not understand what they were saying, but he could discover nothing to be afraid of in their looks.
When they had eaten and drunken their fill, the peddler lit his pipe, and with a smile strolled about the room, opening closet doors, lifting up the lid of the linen chest, pulling out the drawers of the carved bureau and scattering the contents on the floor, knocking the walls and stamping on the floor as if to discover the hiding place of treasure. But nothing of value rewarded his search, and he appeared angry, for he swept the few little china ornaments from the mantel shelf and stamped upon them.
Le Muet rose to his feet. He must be going. His dog might be searching for him, and, besides, if he was to catch up with Monsieur the curé he must be getting along. As he walked to the door, the peddler turned sharply, and taking a couple of quick strides let his hand fall heavily on his shoulder. There was no good humor in the peddler’s face now. He gave a word of command to his companion, who produced a rope, and putting a tight knot around Le Muet’s wrist, gave him a shove that propelled him out of the door.
What was going to happen now, wondered Le Muet. He was not long left in doubt. His captors went from house to house, picking their plunder, clothes, bric-a-brac, copper cooking utensils, till they had accumulated two huge bundles tied in blankets. They were loaded upon Le Muet’s back and, mounting their horses, the peddler and his comrade rode on slowly, driving Le Muet like a cow before them.
A dull rage, all the more terrible since it could find no expression, filled his heart now. His load lay upon his neck and shoulders like lead, and the sweat trickled down his face and the furrow of his bent and tortured hack. When he stopped, a prod from lance or saber set his failing legs moving once more, and he ground his teeth in speechless agony. So, too, perhaps feel the dumb carriers of burdens, but in the brain of Le Muet the suffering was intensified. In his obstinate way he had set his heart upon finding his dog, and now with every step he took he might be going further away.
They were going through the plantation now, and approaching the forest. It was hard going among the low brushwood that caught like so many grasping hands at his legs and tripped him up. Would they never stop for rest? They were within the woods now. At last the two horsemen dismounted, and looked about them as if seeking a landmark. Seeing a pile of white stones from the quarry, they nodded their heads, and with a look at their watches sat down on the edge of the pathway.
Le Muet lay on the ground exhausted, and they let him lie undisturbed, talking to each other in low tones. The mute must have slept, for when he opened his eyes again there were gray uniforms all about him, their wearers sprawling on the ground in easy attitudes. Here and there dimly among the trees he could see others leaning upon their rifles. He sat up and looked about him.
The peddler had a map in front of him, and bending over it was a fine officer; for so he must be, since the peddler nodded servilely whenever the other spoke. Le Muet was still staring when the officer raised his head and caught sight of him. He turned to the peddler, who laughed and pointed to his mouth and ears, assuming a stupid expression, and the officer nodded curtly and bent over the map again. In a little while he called some of his men about him and spoke to them. They disappeared on either side of the narrow path. There was no sign of a horse anywhere, and Le Muet wondered if they were stabled in the quarry, and if their lot was better than his.
The peddler folded up his map, and coming over to Le Muet pointed to a clump of brushwood, and with a struggle the weary unfortunate rose to his feet, shouldered his bundles and followed. They lay down, the peddler with his rifle by his side. In a moment they were joined by the officer and six of his men. They reclined quietly, as if listening.