THE JOURNEY.
PIERRE went on running as fast as he could until he was quite sure that
he was out of sight of the place where he had left Nanette, so that,
even if the old woman missed him, and climbed up to the top of the hill
where he had been lying when he first saw the two cyclists, she would
see nothing of him. Then he brought his pace down to a gentle trot, and
then to a walk, for he was sorely out of breath.
Moreover, he had run away on the impulse of a moment, and now that the
awful deed was done he felt that he must pause and consider what he
should do next.
So by-and-by, after he had been walking and running for more than two
hours, and knew that he must at least have put eight kilos between
himself and Madame Genviève, he crawled into a little plantation which
bordered the road, and burying himself in the thick undergrowth which
formed a delicious shade after the hot, dusty highway and the burning
mid-day sun, he lay down, intending only to remain for a short time,
and make his plans, as it were, and then, when he was rested, set out
again on his walk to Carhaix.
But, as was to be expected, he soon gave up his efforts to think, and,
closing his eyes, in five minutes he was fast asleep.
When he awoke the afternoon was nearly gone, and the trees were casting
long shadows across the road. He started to his feet in alarm, feeling
that he had lost much precious time by his laziness. For by this time
the old woman would be expecting Nanette and him to return, and when
they did not appear she would set out to look for them, and if Nanette
happened to have strayed in the direction of the cottage, instead of
away from it, she might discover his absence sooner than he had counted
on.
Drawing the belt of his blouse a shade tighter, and pulling his
cap well over his eyes, in case he happened to meet any of the few
neighbours whom he knew, he climbed over the fence, and set off once
more along the high road at a dogged trot.
But the trot did not last long this time, for he felt strangely tired,
and, what was stranger still, he was shivering all over, just as if
some one were pouring cold water down his back. He could not understand
at all how this should be, for he did not consider, as an older person
might have done, that to lie down and go to sleep in a damp, shady wood
when one’s blood is at fever-heat with running in the sun is a very
certain way of getting a chill, if not something worse.
In spite of his tired limbs and aching head, however, he went on
doggedly hour after hour, until at last he left the bare hilly country
and reached the wooded plain in which he had always imagined Carhaix
lay. He was almost dead-beat now, poor little fellow! for he had long
since finished the sandwich of black bread, which was all the food he
had had that day, and a lump rose in his throat as turn after turn of
the road went by, and yet there was no sign of any village.
At last he was fain to sit down by the roadside and take a drink of
water from a little brook which ran by the side of it just at that
point.
If only some one would come along, he thought to himself, he would
ask them how far he had yet to walk before he reached Carhaix; for
surely, now that he had come so far, he was safe from the danger of
being recognised. The road which he had travelled had been strangely
deserted; he had only met one man and a couple of peasant girls,
and they had been going in the opposite direction; but as he was
sitting there he heard the rumbling of wheels, and one of the roughly
constructed carts of the district came in sight. It contained a huge
wooden barrel which completely filled it all but the corners, and its
driver, a pleasant-looking young peasant, was sitting in front, his
legs dangling over the edge, singing to himself at the top of his voice.
He paused, and drew up his horse with a jerk as Pierre rose from his
seat and ran forward with his eager question.
‘How far is it to Carhaix?’ he repeated.
‘It is yet seven kilos, my child. Ah, thou art going there, art thou?
Thou lookest more fit to be going to thy bed at home. What takes a
little roundhead like thee to travel the roads alone? Hast friends in
Carhaix?’
‘I am going to St Brieuc, and then I am going to England. I am an
English boy,’ said Pierre, the dull look which always came on his face
when he tried to think, showing all the more plainly by reason of his
utter weariness.
The kindly peasant crossed himself.
‘Ah,’ he muttered, ‘he is one of the good God’s Innocents; but all the
more reason why I should care for him as far as I can.
‘See here, _mon enfant_,’ he went on in a louder voice, ‘I also go to
Carhaix. I have nine little pigs in that barrel, which I go to sell at
the market to-morrow. If thou hast a mind thou mayst climb in, if thou
canst, behind the barrel, and nestle down among the straw. It is easier
to drive than to walk, is it not?’
With grateful thanks, Pierre accepted the welcome offer, and, climbing
in at the tail of the cart, he squeezed himself down in one of the
corners where the straw was deep, and a couple of sacks afforded him
some shelter from the night air. For although the rays of the sun were
strong and fierce through the day, when it set the air was sharp and
chilly.
‘So thou art an English boy—hey?’ said the man good-naturedly, pulling
the sacks more comfortably over the little waif whom he had befriended.
But Pierre was too utterly worn out to answer him; and, now that the
necessity for exertion was over, he lay back in the straw, speechless
and exhausted, conscious only of the ever-increasing pain in his head,
which the jolting of the cart made almost intolerable.
‘Poor little one, he is nearly dead with fatigue!’ thought this Good
Samaritan. ‘I wonder where he has come from, and if he has had any
food? Here is a morsel of sausage and a roll left, and a mouthful of
red wine at the bottom of my flagon. My Marie, bless her heart! is
always afraid that I starve before I reach Carhaix.—Here, my child,
take a drink of this,’ and he stretched over and put the mouth of the
flagon to Pierre’s parched lips.
It was but the red wine of the country, poor and thin and sour, but it
revived the weary little traveller wonderfully, and by the time he had
eaten the roll of bread and the bit of sausage he felt much stronger,
and the pain in his head was not quite so bad as it was before.
‘I come from the mountains. I am going to England. I am an English
boy.’ This was all the information the honest countryman could glean
from him, although he plied him with questions until the roofs of
Carhaix came in sight, a gray, uninteresting-looking place, composed of
concrete houses built round a square.
‘But to go to England thou must go to St Brieuc, and thence to St
Malo,’ said the man, ‘and it is a long, long way, nigh fifty kilos.’
‘But I can walk; I am strong,’ said Pierre hopefully; ‘and perhaps some
one else will give me a ride as thou hast done. And I have money. See
here!’ and, with a confiding look he drew out of his pocket the four
shining francs. ‘See. I will give thee one for the ride,’ he said,
holding one out in his hand.
‘The good God forbid,’ said the man. ‘Nay, nay; keep thy money, my
child. Thou wilt need it all. For when thou arrivest at St Malo thou
wilt need some to give to the man on the steamer, if so be thou art
really going to England. Put it away again, deep down in thy pocket,
and let it not be seen by every man. Else wilt thou be robbed, and what
will follow then, eh?’
By this time the cart had rumbled into the square, and driven through
an archway into the courtyard of a little inn which stood somewhat back
from the rest of the houses. The man got down, and so did Pierre. His
legs were aching worse than ever now, and oh, how he wished that he
might spend the night among the straw, instead of having to go and look
for a sleeping-place! Indeed, he hardly knew how to go and look for
one, for it had never entered into his calculations that he would need
to spend a night on the road.
Perhaps the man saw the wistful look in his eyes, for after he had
called to the landlord of the inn, and with his help had lifted down
the great round tub-like barrel, with its living burden, and had
carried it carefully into a small outhouse, where, apparently it was
to remain during the night, and had seen his old gray horse safely tied
up in one of the stalls in the stable, he turned to the little boy, who
was still lingering near the archway.
[Illustration: He sank gratefully into the soft bed of straw which the
kind countryman made up for him, and had fallen into a feverish sleep.
V. L. PAGE 231.]
‘Wouldst like a night’s lodging, little one?’ he said. ‘For if so, I
could let thee lie in the same house as my piglets. I pay a few sous
for the use of the outhouse; the owner of the inn is a cousin of my
wife’s, and he lets me have it cheaply. I can put what I like in it,
and I take the key, so, if thou wilt, I can take the straw from the
cart and spread it down in a corner, and thou canst sleep there as
safely and at less cost than if thou went somewhere and paid for a bed.’
Needless to say, Pierre agreed to this offer gladly. He was feeling so
tired and ill that he would have been content to lie down in the open
street, and he sank gratefully into the soft bed of straw which the
kind countryman made up for him, and had fallen into a feverish sleep
long before the little piglets had finished their supper of oatmeal and
milk.
Nor did the good man’s kindness stop there. In the gray dusk of the
morning he was back again, his honest face beaming with excitement. He
stooped down and roused the sleeping boy. ‘See here, _mon enfant_,’ he
whispered, ‘there is a chance, an unexpected chance, for thee to travel
to St Malo—to Dinard, at least, and, once there, St Malo is just across
the mouth of the river. Late last night one of these new-fashioned
machines arrived—automobiles they call them. There is no one travelling
in it but the driver; he is in the employment of a rich Vicomte who
lives near St Malo. The car is a new one, and he has been sent to bring
it home from the makers; so much he told last night to Jean Coudart, my
wife’s cousin. And I sat, and I smoked, and I listened. Now, said I to
myself, here is a chance, if the good God wills, for my little friend
who desires to go to England. And before I went to rest I slipped out
into the courtyard, on pretence of visiting my piglets, and I visited
the car instead, and I found that it is a large one, with a great
deep part behind, all covered over with tarpaulin, and underneath
the tarpaulin are some soft rugs and other bundles which the man is
carrying with him. So it seems to me that if thou wert to rise now,
and hide in the car under the tarpaulin, thou wilt have an easy journey
to Dinard; and when thou arrivest, if thou art quick, and slippest out
when the driver is not looking, he need never know, and it will be all
the same.’
Half-asleep and half-dazed, Pierre jumped up and followed his friend,
hardly understanding all the plan, and yet understanding enough to
know that if it were successful he would soon be quite out of reach of
pursuit, the fear of which had dogged his broken slumbers all night.
Swiftly and noiselessly the man undid one of the cords that fastened
down the tarpaulin cover, and, lifting one corner of it, he helped
Pierre to climb up on the soft tired wheel, and crawl under it, and
drop down into the deep well of the car, which was shaped something
like a wagonette. The space between the seats was almost filled with
soft rolls of cloth, horse-wraps they seemed to be; but Pierre managed
to squeeze in among them, and, with the man’s help, to make himself a
very comfortable little nest.
‘That is good,’ whispered the peasant triumphantly. ‘Thou wilt lie
there as comfortably as my little piglets in their tub, and the good
God, I doubt not, will find a way for thee to creep out unobserved when
thou reachest Dinard. Thou must trust to thy brains to know when thou
hast arrived there. And see, I have remembered thy breakfast and thy
dinner. Catch,’ and he tossed down a parcel of bread and cheese into
Pierre’s lap. ‘Now, little one,’ he said ‘I must shut thee up, and say
adieu, and wish thee a good voyage; and if ever thou passest through
the mountains again, do not forget to ask for Baptiste Guinaud and his
wife Marie.—The saints preserve him!’ he said to himself as he fastened
down the tarpaulin cover once more, and turned in the direction of
the outhouse. ‘I scarce know if I have done right in letting him go.
But he is one of God’s Innocents, and Monsieur the Curé says that for
such there is special protection. I love not the reports I hear of the
institution at Châteauneuf for such as he. They were none too kind to
my cousin’s grandmother when she had the misfortune to require to be
taken there. And if the lad be English, as he says he is, they will
know better what to do with him in Dinard or St Malo, where there are
many English people, than a poor man like me. Anyhow, the good God
guard him! say I, and I know that Marie would say the same if she were
here.’