PERE LOUCHET'S GUESTS
In the southern part of the province of Touraine, in the village of La
Haye, lived Pierre Louchet, or as his neighbors called him, Pere
Louchet.
Logically speaking, Louchet, being a bachelor, had no right to this
title, but as he took a paternal interest in all the young people of the
village, they had fitted him with this sobriquet, partly in a spirit of
gentle irony and partly in affectionate recognition of his fatherly
attitude toward them.
Pere Louchet lived alone in a little cottage that was always as neat and
well-kept as if some feminine hand held sway there. Indeed, if he fell
sick, or was too busy with the crops on his small farm to pay proper
attention to his household duties, there were plenty of women from the
neighboring cottages who were glad to come in and make his gruel or
sweep up his hearth, so it was not on account of any unpopularity with
the gentler sex that he lived on in a state of celibacy.
In a society where marriage was almost universal, such an eccentricity
as that exhibited by Pierre Louchet in remaining single did not escape
comment. Indeed at the age of fifty he was as often bantered on the
subject as he had been at thirty. But neither the raillery and
innuendoes of the neighbors nor the entreaties, threats, and cajoleries
of his sister, Jeanne Maillot, had ever moved him to take a wife.
"It's a family disgrace," said Jeanne, putting her red hands on her
hips, and regarding her elder brother with a look of scorn. "Here am I
ten years younger than you, and with five children. And Marie who lives
at Fulgent has eight. And you, the only man in our family, sit there by
the chimney and smoke your pipe contentedly, and let the young girls of
La Haye grow up around you one after another, marry, settle down, and
have daughters who are old enough to be married by this time; and you do
nothing to keep up the name of Louchet."
"'T is not much of a name," replied Pierre.
"It is one your father had, and was quite good enough for me, until I
took Maillot."
"If I should marry, there would be less for your own children when I am
gone."
"I'm sure it was your happiness I was thinking of before all," replied
Jeanne, mollified at this presentation of the case.
"If it's my happiness you are thinking about, let me stay as I am. I and
my pipe are quite company enough, and if I want more I only have to step
across a field and I can find you and your good husband Maillot." And
Pere Louchet's eyes would twinkle kindly while his pipe sent up a
thicker wreath of smoke.
One young woman once declared maliciously that Pere Louchet squinted.
But those who heard the remark declared that it was because he was
always endeavoring to look in any direction except towards her who
sought to attract his attention, and after that the slander was never
repeated.
One morning in December the neighborhood of La Haye was set all in a
flutter of curiosity by a sudden increase in the family in Pere
Louchet's cottage.
As an explanation of it he remarked with his eyes twinkling more than
usual: "I am getting old and need help about the place, and that is why
a nephew and a niece of my brother-in-law Maillot have come to live with
me."
Paul and Elise Durand were natives of "up north" and had never before
been as far south as La Haye. The woman was about twenty-five years old,
brown as a berry, with a sturdy figure and strong arms. Her brother was
tall and slender. He said he was nearly twenty, yet he was small for his
age and his entire innocence of any beard gave him a still more boyish
appearance. He spoke with a softer accent than most country lads in
those parts, but that was because he came from the neighborhood of
Paris; and then he and his sister had both been in the service of a
great "Seigneur" before the Revolution.
In the neighboring province of La Vendee the peasants, led by the
priests and nobles, were threatening to take up arms in support of the
monarchy. But the inhabitants of La Haye took little interest in
political affairs, and although they shared somewhat the sentiment of
opposition in La Vendee to the new government in Paris, they busied
themselves generally with their vineyards and their crops and took no
active part in politics. Paul and Elise were content in the fact that
their new home was so quiet and so remote from the strife that was
raging so fiercely all about them.
One morning, shortly after her arrival, Elise was resting by the stile
which divided the field of Pere Louchet from that of his brother-in-law.
She had placed on the stile the bucket containing six fresh cheeses
wrapped in cool green grape leaves, while she herself sat down upon the
bottom step beside it, to remove her wooden sabot and shake out a little
pebble that had been irritating her foot. The wooden shoe replaced, she
took up her pail and was about to spring blithely over the stile, when
she drew back with a little cry of surprise mingled with alarm. Standing
on the other side, his arm resting on the top step, leaned a young man
who had evidently been watching her closely.
Drawing a short pipe from between a row of white teeth, his mouth
expanded in a wide grin.
"Did I frighten you?" he said, in a slight foreign accent but with an
extremely pleasant tone of voice.
"Not at all," answered Elise, looking at him frankly. "I'm not easily
frightened. If you will move a little to one side, I can cross the stile
and go about my affairs."
"What have you in the pail?" asked the man, as he complied with her
request.
"Cheeses," she answered, as he came lightly over the wall. "It's clear
you're not of this part of the country or you would never have asked
that question."
"I am not from this part of the country," said the stranger. "You ought
to know that by my accent."
"Where is your native place?" asked Elise, her curiosity aroused.
"A long distance from here--Prussia. Have you ever heard of that
country?"
"Yes."
"We are most of us against the Republic--there," said he. "I am, for
one," and he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. She made no
reply. "Let me carry your cheeses," he said, laying his hand upon the
bucket.
"They are not heavy," said Elise, "and I must hurry home."
"All ways are the same to me and I will go along with you," he said,
taking the bucket from her. "It's heavy for you."
"It's no burden for me, and as I don't know you I prefer to go home by
myself," she said frankly.
"Oh, I'm a merry fellow--you need not fear me. I am your friend."
"I have no way of being sure of that," was the reply, "though you don't
look as if you could be an enemy."
"I should be glad for an opportunity to prove myself your friend. And I
could prove that I am no stranger by telling you a good deal about
yourself and your brother Paul."
"Indeed," was all Elise vouchsafed in reply, but she looked a little
uncomfortable.
"I might tell you of an order of arrest that was not carried out; of a
chateau burned; of the midnight flight of two women and the arrival at
La Haye of a woman and her younger brother; all this I might tell you,
with the assurance that these secrets are safe in the keeping of a
friend."
"How will you prove that you are a friend?" Elise said in a low voice
with apparent unconcern, although she felt her heart beating with fear.
"The fact that I have just told you what I know and shall tell no one
else, should be one proof," he said. Elise did not answer, but looked at
him with a keen expression as if she would read his thoughts.
He had a frank, open face, the very plainness of which bespoke the
honesty of the man.
"Suppose I should say that I came from Hagenhof in Prussia and that I
was sent here by friends of your brother who have gone there. Suppose I
should say that they wanted you to join them and that I could take you
there with little risk to yourselves, would you be inclined to trust me
then?"
"What risk do we incur by remaining where we are?" inquired Elise,
without answering his question.
"You will always run the risk of discovery while in France," he replied.
"But tell me, are you inclined to trust me?"
"Yes," answered Elise, stopping and looking him full in the face. "I
am."
"Good," he cried, setting down the pail and extending his hand.
"I am disposed to trust you," she went on, "but in order to do so fully
I should wish to see a letter from the friend you speak of."
"It is dangerous to carry such a writing," he replied significantly.
"True, but you can mention names."
"I can, and will,--names your brother will know well. The Baron von
Valdenmeer, for instance. Besides, if I were your enemy I need not come
thus secretly. Your enemies can use open means."
"I said"--Elise hesitated--"I am disposed to believe you are what you
claim to be, but I can do nothing without the consent of my brother."
"Good! will you obtain his consent?"
"I will try."
"Good again. You will succeed. Talk with him and get his consent to
leave here. And as soon as possible I will make all the arrangements for
the journey so that we may leave in a week or at the latest a fortnight.
Then if you have not persuaded your brother that it is for his interest
to go with me, I will try and add my arguments to yours."
"I trust you will find us ready," said Elise; "but in the mean time
shall you remain here?"
"No, I must go to Paris," was the Prussian's answer. "If you should have
occasion to communicate with me, a word sent to Hector Gaillard, 15 Rue
des Mathurins, will reach me. But do not send any word unless it is of
the greatest importance, and then employ a messenger whom you can
trust."
"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 Pere
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.
Elise sat down for a moment on an upturned basket to collect herself.
Her first thought was to go to Maillot's in search of them. They might
be there, yet it would take an hour to go to Maillot's and return. And
then what if Louchet and Paul were not there! What if the couple had
been murdered and the bodies were still on the farm? Elise shuddered at
the thought, and called loud again, "Paul, Paul, my brother, art thou
not here?"
From the hay in the loft above came a smothered sound. With a glad cry
Elise sprang up the stairs, to see Pere Louchet's head and shoulders
emerging from under a pile of clover.
"Where is Paul?" cried Elise, pouncing upon him before he had freed
himself from the hay, and almost dragging him to his feet. He blinked at
her for a moment while he picked the stray wisps of straw from his hair
and neck.
"Gone," he said laconically.
"Gone! Where?" cried Elise, frantically taking him by the shoulders and
shaking him so that the hayseed and straw flew from his coat. "Pere
Louchet, what is the matter? I never saw you like this before; have you
been drinking?"
"No," he said slowly, and then as if the thought occurred to him for the
first time, he went toward a cask of cherry brandy which stood in a
corner of the granary and drew almost a tin-cupful.
With blazing eyes Elise saw him measure out the liquor slowly, with a
hand that trembled slightly, and put the cup to his lips. She felt as if
she must spring upon him and dash the cup from his hands, but she
controlled herself with an effort. Louchet drained off the brandy to the
last drop, straightened up, and looked at Elise. He acted like a
different man.
"Paul was taken from here about an hour ago by three men. They had
papers and red seals and tricolor cockades enough to take a dozen."
"And you let them take him?" cried Elise.
Pere Louchet looked at his niece quizzically with his twinkling eye.
"There were three of them, Elise, my child, and they had big red seals
and swore a great deal."
"Of course," admitted the woman hastily, "you could do nothing by
force."
"I did try to prevent them from going upstairs where Paul was," the old
man replied, "but one of them knocked me on the head and into a corner
where I lay like a log."
"Oh that I had been here," moaned Elise, as she and Louchet went toward
the house. "If I could only know where they have taken Paul!"
"To Tours," replied Pere Louchet with decision.
"How do you know?" asked Elise quickly.
"I remember it plainly now. When I lay in the corner with a kind of
dazed feeling in my head, not wishing to get up and stir around, I saw
one of the men--not the one who hit me, but a smaller man with a larger
hat and more cockades and more seals, take a paper out of his pocket and
read it to Paul. I tried to make out what it said, for although I could
hear every word that was uttered, I could not get an idea in my head
that would hold together; but I was able to catch the word Tours; I am
sure they have gone to Tours."
"How is your head now, Pere Louchet?" asked Elise with feverish
eagerness.
"As clear as a bell," was the reply. "Let me have one little nip more of
that brandy and it will be clearer."
"Can you ride?"
"Like a boy."
"Good! Make up a bundle of food and clothing for a two-days' journey and
I'll have a horse at the door by the time you are ready."
Ten minutes later Pere Louchet, with a bundle of necessities strapped on
his back, was mounted on one of his best horses which Elise had saddled
for him.
"Now, where am I to ride to?" he demanded, directing his twinkling eye
down upon his niece.
"Ride to Paris. Seek out Gaillard, 15 Rue Mathurins; give him this
letter. That is all I ask of you."
"And you--what are you going to do?" said Pere Louchet, putting the
letter in his inside breast pocket with a slap on the outside to
emphasize its safety.
"I ride toward Tours," replied the intrepid woman.