"Did you expect to see it anywhere else?"
Generally she was quick to detect the smallest cloud of displeasure, but
now she said only: "He might have been on it."
Leon shrugged his shoulders.
"We must cross," she said, decidedly. "I cannot help hoping that he has
gone off to the village."
"I could have told you so much long ago. He has gone off to the
village, and is as safe as if he were in the chateau."
"You don't know--you only think. And if he has found him, why has not
Jean brought him back?"
"Jean is a fool. It is all his fault," grumbled the young master.
The bridge was a slight wooden structure, flung across the broad river
for the convenience of the Beaudrillarts. On the other side lay the
scattered cottages of a little hamlet, the apple orchards and vineyards
already spoken of; while higher up a stone bridge spanned the river,
available, as this was not, for carts and carriages. Beyond, you saw a
white church. The people were poor, but could hardly be miserably so in
a part of France where both soil and climate were gracious; ignorant and
uneducated, but frugal and industrious. Most of the families had lived
in their homes longer than the longest memories stretched back, and,
with many, service with the Beaudrillarts still remained an hereditary
custom.
Nathalie, when she reached the bridge, involuntarily slackened her
steps. Any one who watched her closely would have seen that the hand
which grasped the rail trembled, and that her eyes fastened themselves
fearfully upon the swift-flowing river beneath. Once she cried out, and
stopped. "Eh? What is it?" asked Leon, advancing, startled.
"That!" She pointed below.
"A white stone."
"Is it really a stone? I thought it moved."
"Foolish child! You are in a state in which you fancy anything. You
would shock my mother."
She did not even hear him. She moved forward step by step, her
questioning eyes still trying to pierce the secrets of the river.
Suddenly she stopped again, lifted her head, and stood motionless, her
whole face transformed by a radiant smile.
On the opposite side of the stream the path rose very slightly, and
passed before a large walnut-tree until an angle hid it from view.
Round this corner trooped a joyous procession of some eight or ten
children of all sizes, singing and shouting, headed by a little boy of
perhaps five years old, who marched in front, blowing a shrill trumpet
with much fire and precision. When he spied Mme. Leon he blew yet
louder, and marched more triumphantly, but before he reached her forgot
his dignity, and began to run, crying out, "Mamma, mamma!" She opened
her arms, and he rushed into them.
For a moment she could not speak. The dim, shadowy terrors which the
clasp of his little hands had driven out had been fuller of anguish than
she knew. They were gone, but they left her, strong and healthy woman
as she was, shaken and trembling. Raoul, recovering from his attack of
sentiment, struggled to get free. The children hung shyly back, and
Jean, who had been commanded to defend the rear, pushed forward to
speak.
"Madame, he was outside Pere Robert's, beating the rappel."
Then all the other boys and girls began to laugh and whisper.
"Tiens! he said we were his soldiers."
"We were to march I don't know where. Oh, out of France!" with a broad
sweep of arms, expressive of immensity.
"Big Lonlon was corporal."
"And he made us call him general."
They saw regretfully that the game was over, since monsieur and madame
had appeared, and scattered like a flock of sparrows, Raoul, finding
struggling of no use, watching them gravely with a small air of dignity.
His mother's heart began to beat more steadily.
"Raoul," she remonstrated, softly, "how could you run away?"
He turned his dark eyes upon her.
"Because Jean was so dull, and the river was much nicer."
"But you made poor father and mother so frightened!"
Leon interposed.
"Don't scold the child, m'amie. It was natural enough, and just what I
used to do at his age. I believe he has my very same old trumpet. Yes,
yes, here's the notch which I made one day when I banged Pierre's head."
He blew a blast, at which Raoul clapped his hands and struggled. But
the mother held him fast.
"Raoul will not run away again?"
"It was all that dolt Jean's fault," Leon put in once more. "Jean,
hasn't madame fifty times told you not to lose sight of Monsieur Raoul?
Answer! Come, yes, or no? But she has, for I have heard her myself,
and you are abominably careless."
"Ah, but--monsieur knows," stammered Jean, "that--that Madame de
Beaudrillart--"
"My mother? Well?"
"Monsieur knows she said that if I let him cry I should be punished, and
Mademoiselle Claire said I was never to leave the pony, and--"
The young man burst into a laugh.
"Conflicting orders, eh, Nathalie? Well, you should have managed
somehow. And look here, understand from me that it is Madame Leon who
is your mistress, and that you are always to do what she tells you. You
comprehend?"
"Yes, monsieur," said Jean, in a doubtful tone.
"Good! then now take Monsieur Raoul to the house, and find his bonne or
somebody. We have had quite enough of this. My fishing spoiled and
all! Not that I was doing much good. Come, Nathalie, the least you can
do to make up is to come back with me after my rod. Let that baby go;
he is not the person to scold."
"Dear Leon, he is quite old enough; he must be made to understand."
He caught her arm, and pulled her playfully away.
"Understand? Bah! you are over-precise, cherie. Wait a year or two,
and you shall preach at him as long as you will. Besides, I want you,
and that is enough, or ought to be. Now, Raoul, run; I've begged you
off this time."
She looked at her husband and hesitated; then, without another word, let
go the child and went with Leon. Jean, looking back, saw them walking
by the side of the river, and monsieur had his hand on madame's
shoulder.
"For all that!" muttered Jean, thinking uncomfortably of Mlle. Claire.