The boys were wakened in the morning by a rap on the door, like that of
the preceding evening. When they had rubbed their eyes and got up, they
found that their mother was speaking with no less a person than the
bailiff from the chateau. It took little time to slip on the only day
garment each had: and then, as their mother stood in the doorway, one
looked out under each of her arms, to see what was going on.
"Ah! You little fellows," said the bailiff, "I have some business with
you. What have you to do with pigeons, when you know 'tis against the
law for you to keep them? Come, no excuses; I saw a brood of pigeons on
the ridge of the roof, as I came."
"How are we to help the Count's pigeons lighting on our ridge, if they
choose, please sir!" said Marc.
"Nay, Marc, no tricks!" said his mother. "The pigeons are theirs, sir;
got from the wood, and a present for their sister: but you see, sir, how
trickery and falsehood come. If there were no reasons why my boys
should not do such an innocent thing as bring up a brood of pigeons, the
thought of an untruth would not enter their heads; but you see what you
tempt them to, by driving them so very hard about almost the only
pleasure they have."
"It is not I, good woman," said the bailiff. "Do not say I drive them
hard--I did not make the laws; but it is my business to see that the
laws are regarded between the Count and his people, that is all. Come!
While your daughter puts on her gayest ribbon, I will go round, and see
about these pigeons."
Marie had no gay ribbon to put on, though she must go immediately with
her father before the Count. It was the bailiffs errand to say this.
While she made herself as neat as she could, and her father was called
in from the field (to which he had gone straight from the ponds, because
he knew there was no meal ready for him at home), the bailiff examined
the premises, followed at a distance by the boys, in terror for their
rabbit-hutch. Of course, the rabbits were found; and of course, they
were carried off. Robin rolled upon the ground in his grief, and Marc
looked as if his heart was bursting. The bailiff was so sorry for what
he felt it his duty to do, that against all rule he offered the boys one
young rabbit and one young pigeon to keep. At first, these were
accepted; but Robin was sure that Marc's rabbit would pine alone; and
Marc was certain Robin's pigeon could never live solitary; and they gave
up these last remains of their treasures. To do it with a good grace
was more than they were equal to; and when Marie and her father set off
for the chateau, they left the boys crying bitterly.
It did not make Marie the more easy to see her lover skulking at a
distance, all the way they went. The bailiff was close at hand; and she
believed that his quick eyes would note all Charles's doings. Every
time he spoke, which he did frequently and civilly, she dreaded his
asking what business that man had, watching them from under the shade of
the wood; but each time she was relieved by hearing some question or
remark about the reception of the Dauphiness in the village. She had to
say all that must be said to the bailiff; for her father was busy
thinking. He was glad when they were left alone, so that he could tell
Marie what was in his mind. There was time enough to do this. When the
great iron gates of the avenue closed behind them, the bailiff told them
to go straight on by the broad road. He was going by a side path, but
would meet them farther on, and take them to the Count.
This was the opportunity Randolphe wanted, to tell his daughter that he
thought it best now to ask the Count's consent to her marriage with
Charles, formally and properly. Marie trembled, and grew sick at heart
as she heard this, and implored her father not to mention Charles,--so
sure was she that her marriage would be prevented if Charles were spoken
of. Her father declared, however, that he knew the Count and his ways,
and was certain that, his notice being attracted, nothing could now
prevent his becoming acquainted with the minutest of their family
circumstances; and that the most politic course would be to appear to
desire his consent, and only to have waited his arrival at the chateau
to request it. Randolphe had decided upon his plan, and Marie had only
to submit.
The bailiff met them at the head of the avenue, and led them to the
morning apartment of the Count, which he entered first, after being
announced, leaving his companions in the hall. The door was presently
opened, and he beckoned them in.
The Count was sitting in his morning gown beside a table, on which stood
a small silver tray, with his coffee-cup upon it. His valet was
dressing his hair. Two of his sons were in the room; one playing with
his dogs in a recess of the window, and the other reading the newspaper.
"Come closer," said the Count, in answer to Randolphe's bow. "Nearer--
come close up to the table."
The truth was, he could not otherwise see them well while his hair was
in the hands of his valet.
"Is it possible?" he said, as if to himself, while he looked at the
peasant and his daughter. "Are you Randolphe? I had heard your name
for so long and so often, among my people, that I had imagined you one
of the principal of them. But you appear wretchedly poor, eh?" he
continued, looking into the sallow, unshaven face before him. "I am
afraid you are very poor, eh?"
"Well-nigh heart-broken with poverty, my lord."
"There is some mistake," resumed the Count. "How is this?" said he,
looking towards the bailiff; and then, calling to his son in the window,
"Casimir, how is this?"