IN WHICH THE DAINTIEST FOOT OF FRANCE AND OF NAVARRE
FINDS THAT CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER DOES NOT FIT IT AS
WELL AS SEVEN-LEAGUE BOOTS.
Here we are obliged to double in our tracks, as Jean Oullier would say
in hunting parlance, and ask our reader's permission to retrograde a
few hours, and follow the Comte de Bonneville and Petit-Pierre, who,
as we have probably made it clear, are not the least important
personages of our history.
The general's suppositions were perfectly correct. When the fleeing
party left the subterranean passage, the Vendéan gentlemen crossed the
ruins, entered the covered way, and there deliberated for a few
moments on the proper course to pursue. The one whose identity was
concealed under the name of Gaspard[2] thought it advisable to move
cautiously. Bonneville's excitement when Michel announced the approach
of the column had not escaped him; he heard an exclamation the count
could not restrain,--"We must put Petit-Pierre in safety!"
Consequently, he watched during their flight (as well as the feeble
gleam of the torches would allow) the features of the little peasant,
the result being that his manners became not only reserved but
profoundly respectful.
---------------
[Footnote 2: I refer those of my readers who would like to have a key
to the real names of these men to the careful and interesting book of
General Dermoncourt entitled "La Vendée and Madame."]
---------------
"You said, monsieur," he now exclaimed, addressing the Comte de
Bonneville, "that the safety of the person who accompanies you was to
be considered before our own, being of the utmost importance to the
cause we are resolved to sustain. Ought we not therefore to remain as
a bodyguard to that person, so that if any danger threatens him,--and
we are likely now to meet danger everywhere,--we may be at hand to
make a rampart of our bodies for him."
"You would be right no doubt, monsieur, if the question were one of
fighting," said the Comte de Bonneville. "But just now our object is
flight, and for that the fewer we are in number, the easier and more
certain our escape."
"Remember, count," said Gaspard, frowning, "that you take upon
yourself at twenty-two years of age the responsibility of a very
precious treasure."
"My devotion has already been judged, monsieur," replied the count,
haughtily. "I shall endeavor to be worthy of the confidence with which
I am honored."
Petit-Pierre, who had hitherto held his place silently in the midst of
the little group, now thought the time had come to interfere.
"Come, come," he said; "the safety of a poor little peasant must not
be made an apple of discord between the noblest champions of the cause
you mention. I see it is necessary that I should say a word; we have
no time to lose in useless discussion. But I wish, in the first place,
my friends," said Petit-Pierre, in a tone of grateful affection, "to
ask your pardon for the disguise I have thought best to keep up, even
with you, for one purpose only, that of hearing your real thoughts,
your frank opinions, unaffected by your desire to comply with what is
known to be my most ardent desire. Now that Petit-Pierre has gained
the information he sought, the regent will take part in your
discussions. Meantime, let us separate here; the poorest place is all
I need to pass the rest of the night, and Monsieur de Bonneville, who
knows the country well, can easily find it for me."
"When may we be admitted to confer with her Royal Highness?" asked
Pascal, bowing low before Petit-Pierre.
"As soon as her Royal Highness can find a suitable abode for her
wandering majesty, Petit-Pierre will summon you; it will not be long.
Remember that Petit-Pierre is firmly resolved never to abandon his
friends."
"Petit-Pierre is a gallant lad!" cried Gaspard, gayly, "and his
friends will prove, I hope, that they are worthy of him."
"Farewell, then," said Petit-Pierre. "Now that the mask is off, I
thank you heartily, my gallant Gaspard, for not being deceived by it.
Come, it is time to shake hands and part."
Each gentleman, in turn, took the hand that Petit-Pierre held out to
him and kissed it respectfully. Then they all separated on their
different ways, some to the right, others to the left, and soon
disappeared from sight. Bonneville and Petit-Pierre were left alone.
"Well, what shall we do?" said the latter.
"Follow a direction diametrically opposed to those gentlemen."
"Forward, then, without losing another minute," cried Petit-Pierre,
running toward the road.
"Oh! wait, wait a moment!" cried Bonneville. "Not in that way, if you
please. Your Highness must--"
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "don't forget our agreement."
"True; Madame must please excuse--"
"Again! why, you are incorrigible!"
"I was about to say that Petit-Pierre must allow me to take him on my
back."
"Very good; here's a great stone that seems planted here for the very
purpose. Come nearer, count; come nearer."
Petit-Pierre was already on the stone as he spoke. The young count
approached, and Petit-Pierre mounted astride his shoulders.
"You take to it famously," said Bonneville, starting.
"_Parbleu!_" exclaimed Petit-Pierre. "Saddle-my-nag was a fashionable
game when I was young; I have often played at it."
"A good education, you see, is never wasted," said Bonneville,
laughing.
"Count," said Petit-Pierre, "it isn't forbidden to speak, is it?"
"On the contrary."
"Well, then, as you are an old Chouan, and I am only beginning my
apprenticeship at Chouannerie, do tell me why I am perched on your
shoulders."
"What an inquisitive little person is Petit-Pierre!" said Bonneville.
"No; for I did as you requested, instantly, without discussion, though
the position is a rather questionable one, you must admit, for a
princess of the House of Bourbon."
"A princess of the House of Bourbon! Is there any such person here?"
"Ah! true. Well then, please to tell me why Petit-Pierre, who can walk
and run and jump ditches, is perched on the shoulders of his friend
Bonneville, who can't do any of those things with Petit-Pierre on his
back."
"Well, I'll tell you; it is because Petit-Pierre has such a tiny
foot."
"Tiny, yes; but firm, too!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, as if his vanity
was ruffled.
"Yes, but firm as it may be, it is too small not to be recognized."
"By whom?"
"By those who are on our traces."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, with comic sadness; "who would
ever have told me that some day, or some night, I should regret that
my foot was not as large as that of Madame la Duchesse de ----"
"Poor Marquis de Souday, who was so fluttered by what you told him of
your court acquaintances," said Bonneville, laughing, "what would he
think now if he heard you talking with such assurance and experience
of the feet of duchesses?"
"He would set it down to my rôle of page." Then after a moment's
silence, "I understand very well that you should want them to lose my
tracks; but you know we can't travel long in this way. Saint
Christopher himself would get tired; and, sooner or later, that
wretched little foot will leave its imprint on a patch of mud."
"We'll baffle the hounds for a short time, at any rate."
The young man bore to the left, attracted by the sound of a brook.
"What are you about?" asked Petit-Pierre. "You will lose the path; you
are knee-deep in water now."
"Of course I am," said Bonneville, hoisting Petit-Pierre a little
higher on his shoulders; "and now let thou look for our traces!" he
cried, hurrying up the bed of the brook.
"Ha, ha! that is clever of you!" cried Petit-Pierre. "You have missed
your vocation, Bonneville; you ought to have been born in a primeval
forest, or on the pampas of South America. The fact is that, to follow
us, a trail is needed, and here there is none."
"Don't laugh. The man who is after us is an old hand at such pursuits;
he fought in La Vendée in the days when Charette, almost
single-handed, gave the Blues a terrible piece of work to do."
"Well, so much the better," cried Petit-Pierre, gayly; "better far to
fight with those who are worth the trouble."
But in spite of the confidence he thus expressed, Petit-Pierre, after
uttering the words, grew thoughtful, while Bonneville struggled
bravely against the rolling stones and fallen branches which impeded
him greatly, for he still followed the course of the brook.
After another quarter of an hour of such advance the brook fell into a
second and a wider stream, which was really the one that circles at
the base of the Viette des Biques. Here the water came to Bonneville's
waist, and presently, to his great regret, he was forced to land and
continue his way along one or the other bank of the little stream.
But the fugitives had only gone from Scylla to Charybdis, for the
shores of the mountain-torrent, bristling with thorns, interlaced with
trunks and roots of fallen trees, soon became impassable.
Bonneville placed Petit-Pierre on the ground, finding it impossible to
carry him further, and struck boldly into the thicket, requesting
Petit-Pierre to follow closely through the opening made by his body;
and thus, in spite of all obstacles, in spite too of the darkness of
the night and the deeper darkness of the woods, he advanced in a
straight line, as none but those who have constant experience in
forests can succeed in doing.
The plan succeeded well, for after going some fifty yards they struck
one of those paths called "lines," which are cut parallel to each
other through forests, partly to mark the limits of felling, and
partly to facilitate the transportation of the wood.
"Oh, what a good find!" said Petit-Pierre, who found it hard to walk
through the tangle of underbrush and briers which rose at times above
his head. "Here, at least, we can stretch our legs."
"Yes, and without leaving tracks," replied Bonneville, striking the
ground, which was hard and rocky.
"Now all we want to know is which way to go," said Petit-Pierre.
"As we have, I believe, thrown those who are after us off the scent,
we can now go whichever way you think best," replied Bonneville.
"You know that to-morrow night I have a rendezvous at La Cloutière
with our friends from Paris."
"We can get to La Cloutière from here almost without leaving the
woods, where we are safer than we should be in the open. We can take a
path I know of to the forest of Touvois and the Grandes-Landes, to the
west of which is La Cloutière; only, it is impossible for us to get
there to-day."
"Why not?"
"Because we should have to make a number of detours, which would take
us at least six hours; and that is very much more than you have
strength for."
Petit-Pierre stamped his foot impatiently.
"I know a farmhouse," continued Bonneville, "about three miles this
side of La Benaste, where we should be welcome, and where you could
rest awhile before doing the remainder of the way."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre; "then let us start at once. Which
way?"
"Let me precede you," said Bonneville. "We must go to the right."
Bonneville took the direction he named, and stalked on with the
persistency he had shown on leaving the banks of the stream.
Petit-Pierre followed him.
From time to time the Comte de Bonneville stopped to reconnoitre the
way and give his companion time to breathe. He warned him of the
various obstacles in the path before they came to them, with a
minuteness which showed how thoroughly familiar he was with the forest
of Machecoul.
"You see I am avoiding the paths," he said to his companion, during
one of their halts.
"Yes; and why do you do so?"
"Because they will be certain to look for us in the paths where the
ground is soft; whereas here, where there has not been so much
trampling, our steps are less likely to be observed."
"But perhaps this way is the longer."
"Yes, but safer."
They walked on for ten minutes in silence, when Bonneville stopped and
caught his companion by the arm. The latter asked what the trouble
was.
"Hush! or speak very low," said Bonneville.
"Why?"
"Don't you hear anything?"
"No."
"I hear voices."
"Where?"
"There, about five hundred yards in that direction. I fancy I can
distinguish through the branches a ruddy gleam of light."
"Yes, and so can I."
"What do you suppose it is?"
"I ask you that."
"The devil!"
"Can it be charcoal-burners?"
"No; this is not the time of year when they start their kilns. And if
they were charcoal-burners, I should not like to trust them; I have no
right, being your guide, to run any risks."
"Is there any other road we could take?"
"Yes."
"Then suppose we try it."
"I don't want to take it till reduced to the last extremity."
"Why not?"
"Because it crosses a marsh."
"Pooh! you who can walk on the water like Saint Peter! Don't you know
the marsh?"
"I know it very well. I have often shot snipe there; but--"
"But?"
"It was by daylight."
"And this marsh--"
"Is a bog where, even in the daytime, I have come near sinking."
"Then let us risk an encounter with these worthy people. I should not
be sorry to warm myself at their fire."
"Stay here; and let me go and reconnoitre."
"But--"
"Don't be afraid."
So saying, Bonneville disappeared noiselessly in the darkness.