"Avert the blow!" repeated Isidore; "the devil himself would not succeed—unless—unless...."
He paused, as if some one would listen to his thought. A frightful idea entered his head, and all that night the notary, who groaned and shivered with fever in his bed, heard him walking about, taking great strides across the floor, whilst he uttered disconnected words.
The next day the servant found her masters in a sad state; one sick, almost delirious, the other asleep, all dressed, in a chair, with a face haggard from the effects of the terrible night that had just passed.
But two hours afterwards, affairs resumed their accustomed train. Isidore bathed and changed his clothes, drank a bowl of hot wine, in which he poured a good pint of brandy. He swallowed this comforter, ate a mouthful, and appeared fresh and well. But an experienced person would easily have seen that his eyes looked like balls of fire under the red lids, and that every moment he made a singular movement with his shoulders; you would have thought he shuddered, but doubtless that was owing to the heavy frost the night before.
He went to see Jeannette, as usual, and was wonderfully polite; the little thing was sad, but gentle and quiet. She willingly spoke of the marriage, of the contemplated journey, and the presents she wished. But yet it was easy to see that each one of the betrothed was playing a part in trying to appear at ease, and scarcely succeeded. Jeannette, in the midst of a fine phrase, would stop and look out of the window, and Isidore would profit by the opportunity to fall into a reverie, which certainly was not suitable at such a time. The reason was that the slight friendship that was felt on one side had taken wings and flown away; whilst on the other that which perhaps might begin threatened to be cut short by circumstances: but whose fault was it?
"As you make your bed, so you must lie," said our curé, and Isidore, who had stuffed his with thorns, should not have been surprised if he felt them. No one can describe, because, very fortunately, no one can understand, the disordered state of this unhappy young man's mind. He had formed a resolution whose result you will soon see; and on whatever side he looked, he saw a bottomless abyss open before his eyes. He was afraid—this yet can be said in his favor, for indifference to crime is the state of finished scoundrels—and he would not now have gone so far, if, as we hope, he had not previously lost his senses.
He prolonged his visit to Muiceron as long as he could. Little Jeannette was tired out and did not attempt to conceal it, which sufficiently showed how much pleasure she took in the presence of her future husband. She even yawned two or three times, which any other day he would have resented; but now it escaped his notice.
At nightfall he at last decided to leave, and then it could be seen, by his pallor and the manner that he passed his hand across his brow, that the great deep pit of which I spoke caused him a greater vertigo than ever.
Nevertheless, he started resolutely on the road for the wood of Montreux, and, when he was near the wood-cutters' retreat, he looked as if he wished to enter it; but suddenly he retraced his steps, and afterwards appeared so absent and buried in his own reflections, he did not notice that the cabin was empty, and no work going on inside.
One man, however, was walking among the huge piles of timber, half ready for delivery; it was Michou. He at once perceived Isidore, and followed him with his eyes a long distance; but it was not necessary to accost him, and he let him pass on, with the idea that he was seeking the high-road to Issoudun, in obedience to the letter of Jean-Louis.