knew the youth too well to believe it. And he was right.
The meeting between the brothers was quiet, but none the less terrible. The curé told François how it had all happened; how faithfully Marie had kept her troth, hoping long after he and Gaston had given up all hope; how at length he had urged her to listen to Gaston; and how, tardily and with a sad heart, she had yielded to both their entreaties. François heard him to the end, and then, in a voice of heart-rending gentleness, he said:
“It was my fault, frère; I do not blame thee. God’s will be done!”
He held out his hand, Gaston clasped it, and the brothers stood for a moment face to face in silence. Both were very, pale, but it was not François who was the paler of the two.
Gaston went home, and François watched his figure across the little garden and down the road till it disappeared like a blue speck on the white background, and then he fell upon the curé’s neck and sobbed like a woman.
Before many hours Chamtocé was on tiptoe with alarm and curiosity. A shepherd had arrived in haste with the news that one of the royalist captains had passed through Saumur in disguise, and been traced to Chapelle-aux-lys, whence les bleus were started in pursuit of him; there was a large price on his head; and les bleus were so enraged against him for his desperate exploits and for having baffled them so long, that they were resolved to show no quarter to the people that harbored him, and would set fire to the town rather than let him escape. An old cowherd who had been born and bred in the service of the Maulevriers had recognized François Léonvel on the road, and, guessing whither he was
bound, had sent a trusty messenger with a word of warning to Chamtocé.
Gaston was the only person, besides the curé and Victoire, who knew of his brother’s arrival so far, and when Gervoise came in with this news, which she caught from the village gossips on her way from evening prayers, his first impulse was to rush to the presbytery, and warn his brother to start at once, and seek some safer hiding-place. He went out quickly, but, as he had his hand on the wicket, he saw Marie coming towards the cottage. She was the last person he wished to meet just then, but he could not avoid her without exciting surprise in her mind, and perhaps suspicion. So he tarried till she came, wondering why she walked so slowly, as if she did not make sure he was waiting for her, or as if—as Gaston’s heart whispered to him—she would rather he went without speaking to her. Why? Was it possible the truth had come to her ears already? He could not believe it, still it was with a painful quickening of his pulse that he saw her at that leisurely pace.
“Were you waiting for me, Gaston?” she said simply.
“No. I am going in to Monsieur le Curé for a minute; I will be back presently. Are you not well, Marie?”