"Is that your name?" asked the woman.
"That is my name while in France. Can you remember that and the address?"
"I can."
"Then good-by. And a word at parting," he said—turning after he had leaped the fence. "It is perhaps needless to caution you, but my advice would be that your brother should not go too often to the village. His hands are too small. Good-by." And he walked off up the lane smoking his short pipe, and whistling gayly.
Two days later Gaillard joined his friend Tournay in Paris. He found Tournay much more hopeful than when he had left him, and his spirits rose still more as he heard Gaillard's news.
"It is Wednesday," Tournay said. "On Saturday the convention has promised to send me back with my dispatches. Can you be ready for La Haye by Saturday morning?"
"Yes," said Gaillard, "twelve hours earlier if necessary."
"It is agreed then for Saturday, unless the convention delays."
Three days after her meeting with Gaillard, Elise, on returning from a neighboring town where she had gone to dispose of some butter, found the kitchen deserted and the fire out. She had expected to find a bowl of hot potato soup and a plate of sausage and garlic. Instead she found a cold hearthstone and an empty casserole.
As usual, the first thought of the devoted sister was of Paul, and she called his name loudly. It did not take long to ascertain that the house was empty, and with her heart beating wildly with anxiety she ran outside the cottage crying, "Oh, Paul, my child,—my brother, Paul!" There was no answer save from the cattle in the outhouse who shook their stanchions, impatient for their evening meal. She looked about for Père Louchet. He also was absent. Evidently he had driven in the cows and had been prevented from feeding them. Something serious had happened, and it must have occurred within an hour, for at this time the cattle were usually feeding.