“M. le Marquis is a true grand seigneur, and never begrudges any condescension for the good of his inferiors,” observed the old tory host. “This time it was only Marcel who accompanied him down the cliff. Old Caboff, they say, was more cut up by this last blow; still, grief ought not to make a man selfish and unthankful.”
“Just so,” said lame Pierre, who sat puffing in the bar; “and it’s only what those two poor lads had to expect; moreover, since a man must die, better be killed in battle than die of the small-pox.”
“All the same, it’s hard on the folks up yonder,” remarked a bystander, “and it isn’t their money-bags—no, nor even M. le Marquis’ good words—that can comfort them to-day.”
Soon after this M. le Marquis left Gondriac rather suddenly one morning. After reading his letters he ordered his valise to be got ready, and in an hour he was posting to X——. There he dismissed the postchaise, and no one knew whither or how he had continued his route. Gondriac busied itself in endless conjectures as to the purport and destination of this mysterious journey. Had M. le Marquis been summoned to Paris to assist the government in some political crisis? Had he gone over to England to pour oil on the angry waters there? For the king of England was full of wrath and jealousy against the great emperor, and it was well known at Gondriac that he was plotting foul play of some sort against France. Or, again, could M. le Marquis’ hasty departure have had any reference to M. le Comte? Perhaps M. le Comte was wounded or a prisoner; who could tell? So the wiseacres gossiped, adopting first one theory, then another.
A month went by without throwing any light on the mystery. Then the cold set in suddenly, and the gossips had something else to talk about. The cruel winter was down upon them, catching them unprepared, so how were they to face it? They were only in October, and the wind blew from the northeast as if it were March, keeping up its shrill, hard whistle day and night, and the sea, as if it were exasperated by the sound, roared and foamed and thundered, till it seemed like a battle between them which should make most noise. And it was hard to say who carried the day.
One night, when the battle was at its fiercest, the wind shrieking its loudest, and the sea rolling up its biggest waves, Alba sat at her window watching the tempest with thrills of sympathetic terror. Virginie thought the child was in bed and asleep hours ago, and she was glad of it; for the storm drove right against the cottage, and burst upon it every now and then with a violence that shook her in her chair and made the walls rock. She was knitting away, but between the stitches many a prayer went up for those who were out breasting the fury of the hurricane. Suddenly a sound came up from the sea that made her start to her feet with a cry. Boom! boom! boom! it came in quick succession, leaping over the rocks with a sharp, dull crash. The door of the little sitting-room was thrown open, and Alba stood on the threshold, white as a ghost, her dark eyes gleaming. “It is the signal-gun, mother!” she cried. “There is a ship in distress!”
“How came you up and dressed, child?” exclaimed Virginie.
“Mother, I could not sleep; I have been watching the storm. Hark! there it is again. Why don’t they answer it? Let us hurry down to the beach.”
“Of what use would we be there, my child?” said Virginie. “Let us rather kneel down and pray that help may come.”
“I cannot pray; I cannot stay here safe and quiet while that gun is firing! Hark! there it is again. Oh! why don’t they make haste? Mother, I must go! If you won’t come I will go by myself.” Alba, as she spoke, threw back her head with the wild, free movement that Virginie knew, and knew that she could no more control than she could check the flight of a bird on the wing.