Panniered market-asses, hastening pedestrians and boys, alone mingled with their speed across the bridge, past the chemin des affronteux, into Charlemont; the sudden howl of indignation from the groups behind them had died away.
“What on earth is the matter with you, Jackson?” called out the lad, starting up again, as they reached about the middle of the village street; “why don’t you drive on? Never mind watering your horses!”
“They’ve got a couple of farm-waggons and some hampers right across the way, sir,” replied Jackson, turning about from his box, with an undertone as much from misgiving as respect.
A shadowy mass blocked up the passage before them, looking vague in the dusk. It was opposite the door of a shabby auberge or village inn, with the sign of the Fleur-de-lis. Charles stood up to call out in French, and a gendarme in coarse blue uniform advanced to the side of the carriage, civilly enough, as if to answer his inquiries.
“You have injured a respectable person, it is said, monsieur,” was the reply of the functionary, in a lowered voice—“a man of influence in the place here.”
“Wilfully, too, it seems!” added a villager, sharply, and turning to the crowd, which in a few seconds gathered about the speakers.
“Yes, yes—our schoolmaster—a philosopher—an estimable man—M. Morin!” was the general response, rising to a climax: “see him there, assisted by every one to reach the spot!”
The figure of Morin by that time became obvious, in fact, near the door of the tavern, supported by workmen and peasants, while the blood trickled down his cheek, and he limped on one foot, seeming more confused than hurt. The concern of the ladies was extreme; young Willoughby alone remained obstinately cool as the excitement increased; he assumed the chief part with great self-possession, and distinctly imputed the fault to the aggrieved individual, expressing quite as plainly, though in rather indifferent French, his doubts as to the seriousness of the injury.
The landlord of the auberge, a beetle-browed man in a striped cowl and white apron, with an air between a cook and a butcher, had hovered behind, looking on with apparent attempts at moderation among the bystanders. “Yet monsieur will scarcely refuse to apologise to M. Morin?” inquired he, thrusting his sinister visage nearer.
“If you only hand me your purse, mother,” was Charles’s answer, to Lady Willoughby’s anxiety, “you’ll soon see what’s wanted!”