M. Seneschal’s horse was perhaps one of the very best in the whole
province; but M. de Chandore’s was still better. In less than fifty
minutes they had driven the whole distance to Boiscoran; and during this
time M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty words.
When they reached Boiscoran, the courtyard was silent and deserted.
Doors and windows were hermetically closed. On the steps of the porch
sat a stout young peasant, who, at the sight of the newcomers, rose, and
carried his hand to his cap.
“Where is Anthony?” asked M. de Chandore.
“Up stairs, sir.”
The old gentleman tried to open the door: it resisted.
“O sir! Anthony has barricaded the door from the inside.”
“A curious idea,” said M. de Chandore, knocking with the butt-end of his
whip.
He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last Anthony’s voice was
heard from within,--
“Who is there?”
“It is I, Baron Chandore.”
The bars were removed instantly, and the old valet showed himself in the
door. He looked pale and undone. The disordered condition of his beard,
his hair, and his dress, showed that he had not been to bed. And this
disorder was full of meaning in a man who ordinarily prided himself upon
appearing always in the dress of an English gentleman.