THE RENCOUNTER.
The night set in clear and cold. Following the advice of the
Schoolmaster, the Chouette had gone to that part of the hollow way which
was the most remote from the path, and nearest to the cross-road where
Barbillon was waiting with the hackney-coach. Tortillard, who was posted
as an advanced guard, watched for the return of Fleur-de-Marie, whom he
was desirous of drawing into the trap by begging her to come to the
assistance of a poor old woman. The son of Bras Rouge had advanced a few
steps out of the ravine to try and discern Marie, when he heard the
Goualeuse some way off speaking to the peasant girl who accompanied her.
The plan had failed; and Tortillard quickly went down into the ravine to
run and inform the Chouette.
"There is somebody with the young girl," said he, in a low and
breathless tone.
"May the hangman squeeze her weasand, the little beggar," exclaimed the
Chouette in a rage.
"Who's with her?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, no doubt, the country wench who passed along the road just now,
followed by a large dog. I heard a woman's voice," said Tortillard.
"Hark!--do you hear? There's the noise of their sabots," and, in the
silence of the night, the wooden soles sounded clearly on the ground
hardened by the frost.
"There are two of 'em. I can manage the young 'un in the gray mantle,
but what can we do with t'other? _Fourline_ can't see, and Tortillard
is too weak to do for the companion--devil choke her! What can be done?"
asked the Chouette.
"I'm not strong, but, if you like, I'll cling to the legs of the
country-woman with the dog. I'll hold on by hands and teeth, and not let
her go, I can tell you. You can take away the little one in the
meantime, you know, Chouette."
"If they cry or resist, they will hear them at the farm," replied the
Chouette, "and come to their assistance before we can reach Barbillon's
coach. It is no easy thing to carry off a woman who resists."
"And they have a large dog with them," said Tortillard.
"Bah! bah! If it was only that, I could break the brute's skull with a
blow of my shoe-heel," said the Chouette.
"Here they are," replied Tortillard, who was listening still to the echo
of their footsteps. "They are coming down the hollow now."
"Why don't you speak, _fourline_?" said the Chouette to the
Schoolmaster. "What is best to be done, long-headed as you are, eh? Are
you grown dumb?"
"There's nothing to be done to-day," replied the miscreant.
"And the thousand 'bob' of the man in mourning," said the Chouette;
"they are gone, then? I'd sooner--Your knife--your knife, _fourline_! I
will stick the companion, that she may be no trouble to us; and, as to
the young miss, Tortillard and I can make off with her."
"But the man in mourning does not desire that we should kill any one."
"Well, then, we must put the cold meat down as an extra in his bill. He
must pay, for he will be an accomplice with us."
"Here they come--down the hill," said Tortillard, softly.
"Your knife, lad!" said the Chouette, in a similar tone.
"Ah, Chouette," cried Tortillard, in alarm, and extending his hands to
the hag, "that is too bad--to kill. No!--oh, no!"
"Your knife, I tell you!" repeated the Chouette, in an undertone,
without paying the least attention to Tortillard's supplication, and
putting her shoes off hastily. "I have taken off my shoes," she added,
"that I may steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark; but I
can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and I will do for the
other."
"No," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. There will be plenty of
time to-morrow."
"What! you're afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the Chouette, with
fierce contempt.
"Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. "But you may fail in your blow
and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden
in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to
come to Fleur-de-Marie, who called him frequently.
"Do you hear their dog? Here they are! Your knife!--or, if not--" cried
the Chouette, with a threatening air.
"Come and take it from me, then--by force," said the Schoolmaster.
"It's all over--it's too late," added the Chouette, after listening for
a moment attentively; "they have gone by. You shall pay for that,
gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice.
"A thousand francs lost by your stupidity!"
"A thousand--two thousand--perhaps three thousand gained," replied the
Schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "Listen, Chouette! Do you go back
to Barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet
the man in mourning. Tell him that it was impossible to do anything
to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. The young girl goes
every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance
which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow we shall have a
more secure opportunity. So to-morrow do you return and be with
Barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour."
"But thou--thou?"
"Tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young girl lives. I will
cook up some tale--say we have lost our road, and ask leave to pass the
night at the farm in a corner of the stable. No one could refuse us
that. Tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins and outs
of the house. There is always money to be looked for amongst these
farming people. You say the farm is situated in a lone spot; and, when
once we know all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some
safe friends, and the thing is done as easy--"
"Always 'downy!' What a head-piece!" said the Chouette, softening. "Go
on, _fourline_."
"To-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, I will complain of a
pain which prevents me from walking. If they will not believe me, I'll
show them the wound which I have always had since I smashed the 'loop of
my darbies,' and which is always painful to me. I'll say it is a burn I
had from a red-hot bar when I was a workman, and they'll believe me.
I'll remain at the farm part of the day, whilst Tortillard looks about
him. When the evening comes on, and the little wench goes out as usual
with the priest, I'll say I'm better, and fit to go away. Tortillard and
I will follow the young wench at a distance, and await your coming to us
here. As she will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she
sees us. We will speak to her, Tortillard and I; and, when once within
reach of my arms, I will answer for the rest. She's caught safe enough,
and the thousand francs are ours. That is not all. In two or three days
we can 'give the office' of the farm to Barbillon and some others, and
share with them if they get any 'swag,' as it will be me who put them on
the 'lay.'"
"Well done, No-Eyes! No one can come up to you," said the Chouette,
embracing the Schoolmaster. "Your plan is capital! Tell you what,
_fourline_, when you are done up and old, you must turn consulting
'prig'; you will earn as much money as a 'big-wig.' Come, kiss your old
woman, and be off as quick as you may, for these joskins go to sleep
with their poultry. I shall go to Barbillon; and to-morrow, at four
o'clock, we will be at the cross-road with the 'trap,' unless he is
nabbed for having assisted Gros-Boiteux and the Skeleton to 'do for' the
milk-woman's husband in the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie. But if he can't
come, another can, for the pretended hackney-coach belongs to the man in
mourning who has used it before. A quarter of an hour after we get to
the cross-road, I will be here and wait for you."
"All right! Good-by till to-morrow, Chouette."
"I had nearly forgot to give the wax to Tortillard, if there is any lock
to get the print of at the farm. Here, chickabiddy, do you know how to
use it?" said the one-eyed wretch to Tortillard, as she gave him a piece
of wax.
"Yes, yes, my father showed me how to use it. I took for him the print
of the lock of the little iron chest which my master, the quack doctor,
keeps in his small closet."
"Ah, that's all right; and, that the wax may not stick, do not forget to
moisten the wax after you have warmed it well in your hand."
"I know all about it," replied Tortillard.
"To-morrow, them, _fourline_," said the Chouette.
"To-morrow," replied the Schoolmaster.
The Chouette went towards the coach. The Schoolmaster and Tortillard
quitted the hollow way, and bent their steps towards the farm, the
lights which shone from the windows serving to guide them on their way.
Strange fatality, which again brought Anselm Duresnel under the same
roof with his wife, who had not seen him since his condemnation to hard
labour for life!