"A camp of soldiers. If there were men only I might have warmed myself
at their fire without their seeing or hearing me; but a horse smelt me
out and neighed."
"I heard it."
"Then you understand; not a word. We must take to our legs, that's
all."
As he spoke they were running along a wood-road, which fortunately
came in their way. After a time Bonneville drew Petit-Pierre into the
bushes.
"Get your breath," he said.
While Petit-Pierre rested, Bonneville tried to make out where they
were.
"Are we lost?" asked Petit-Pierre, uneasily.
"Oh, no danger of that!" said Bonneville. "I'm only looking for a way
to avoid that horrid marsh."
"If it leads us straight to our object we had better take it," said
Petit-Pierre.
"We must," replied Bonneville; "I don't see any other way."
"Forward, then!" cried Petit-Pierre; "only, you must guide me."
Bonneville made no answer; but in proof of urgency, he started at
once, and instead of following the "line" path on which they were, he
turned to the right and plunged into the thicket. At the end of ten
minutes' march the underbrush lessened. They were nearing the edge of
the forest, and they could hear before them the swishing of the reeds
in the wind.
"Aha!" cried Petit-Pierre, recognizing the sound; "we are close to the
marsh now."
"Yes," said Bonneville; "and I ought not to conceal from you that this
is the most critical moment of our flight."
So saying, the young man took from his pocket a knife, which might, if
necessary, be used as a dagger, and cut down a sapling, removing all
the branches, but taking care to hide each one as he lopped it off.
"Now," he said, "my poor Petit-Pierre, you must resign yourself and go
back to your former place on my shoulders."
Petit-Pierre instantly did as he was told, and Bonneville went forward
toward the marsh. His advance under the weight he carried, hindered by
the long sapling which he used to test the condition of the ground at
every step, was horribly difficult. Often he sank into the slough
almost to his knees, and the earth, which seemed soft enough as it
gave way under him, offered a positive resistance when he sought to
extricate himself. It was, in fact, with the utmost difficulty that he
could get his legs out of it; it seemed as though the gulf that opened
at their feet was unwilling to relinquish its prey.
"Let me give you some advice, my dear count," said Petit-Pierre.
Bonneville stopped and wiped his brow.
"If, instead of paddling in this mire, you stepped from tuft to tuft
of those reeds which are growing here, I think you would find a better
foothold."
"Yes," said Bonneville, "I should; but we should leave more visible
traces." Then, a moment later, he added, "No matter. You are right; it
is best."
And changing his direction a little, Bonneville took to the reeds. The
matted roots of the water-plants had, in fact, made little islets of a
foot or more in circumference, which gave a fairly good foothold over
the boggy ground. The young man felt them, one after the other, with
the end of his stick and stepped from each to each.
Nevertheless, he slipped constantly. Burdened with Petit-Pierre's
weight, he had great difficulty in recovering himself; and before long
this toilsome struggle so completely exhausted him he was forced to
ask Petit-Pierre to get down and let him rest awhile.
"You are worn out, my poor Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre. "Is it very
much farther, this marsh of yours?"
"Two or three hundred yards more, and then we re-enter the forest as
far as the line-path to Benaste, which will take us direct to the
farm."
"Can you go as far as that?"
"I hope so."
"Good God! how I wish I could carry you myself, or at any rate, walk
beside you."
These words restored the count's courage. Giving up his second method
of advancing from tuft to tuft, he plunged resolutely into the mire.
But the more he advanced, the more the slough appeared to move and
deepen. Suddenly Bonneville, who had made a mistake and placed his
foot on a spot he had not had time to sound, felt himself sinking
rapidly and likely to disappear.
"If I sink altogether," he said, "fling yourself either to right or
left. These dangerous places are never very wide."
Petit-Pierre sprang off at once, not to save himself, but to lighten
Bonneville of the additional weight.
"Oh, my friend!" he cried, with an aching heart and eyes wet with
tears as he listened to that generous cry of devotion and
self-forgetfulness, "think only of yourself, I command you."
The young count had already sunk to the waist. Fortunately, he had
time to put his sapling across the bog before him; and as each end
rested on a tuft of reeds sufficiently strong to bear a weight, he was
able, thanks to the support they gave, and aided by Petit-Pierre, who
held him by the collar of his coat, to extricate himself from the
dangerous place.
Soon the ground became more solid; the black line of the woods which
had all along marked the horizon came nearer and increased in height.
The fugitives were evidently approaching the end of the bog.
"At last!" cried Bonneville.
"Ouf!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, slipping off Bonneville's shoulders as
soon as he felt that the earth was solid beneath their feet. "Ouf! you
must be worn out, my dear count."
"Out of breath, that's all," replied Bonneville.
"Good heavens!" cried Petit-Pierre; "to think that I should have
nothing to give you,--not even the flask of a soldier or pilgrim, or
the crust of a beggar's loaf!"
"Pooh!" said the count; "my strength doesn't come from my stomach."
"Tell me where it does come from, my dear count, and I will try to be
as strong as you."
"Are you hungry?"
"I'll admit that I could eat something."
"Alas!" said the count; "you make me regret now what I cared little
for a moment ago."
Petit-Pierre laughed; and then, for the purpose of keeping up his
companion's heart, he cried out gayly:--
"Bonneville, call the usher and let him notify the chamberlain on duty
to order the stewards to bring my lunch-basket. I would like one of
those snipe I hear whistling about us."
"Her Royal Highness is served," said the count, kneeling on one knee,
and offering on the top of his hat an object which Petit-Pierre seized
eagerly.
"Bread!" he cried.
"Black bread," said Bonneville.
"Oh, no matter! I can't see the color at night."
"Dry bread! doubly dry!"
"But it is bread, at any rate."
And Petit-Pierre set his handsome teeth into the crust, which had been
drying in the count's pocket for the last two days.
"And when I think," said Petit-Pierre, "that General Dermoncourt is
probably at this moment eating my supper at Souday, isn't it
aggravating?" Then, suddenly, "Oh! forgive me, my dear guide," he went
on, "but my stomach got the better of my heart; I forgot to offer you
half my supper."
"Thanks," replied Bonneville; "but my appetite isn't strong enough yet
to munch stones. In return for your gracious offer, I'll show you how
to make your poor supper less husky."
Bonneville took the bread, broke it, not without difficulty, into
little bits, soaked it in a brook that was flowing quite near them,
called Petit-Pierre, sat down himself on one side the brook, while
Petit-Pierre sat on the other, and taking out one by one the softened
crusts, presented them to his famished companion.
"Upon my honor!" said the latter, when he came to the last crumb, "I
haven't eaten such a good supper for twenty years. Bonneville, I
appoint you steward of my household."
"Meantime," said the count, "I am your guide. Come, luxury enough; we
must continue our way."
"I'm ready," said Petit-Pierre, springing gayly to his feet.
Again they started through the woods, and half an hour's walking
brought them to a river which they were forced to cross. Bonneville
tried his usual method; but at the first step, the water came to his
waist, at the second to his shoulders. Feeling himself dragged by the
current he caught at the branch of a tree and returned to the bank.
It was necessary to find a way to cross. At a distance of about three
hundred yards Bonneville thought he had found one; but it was nothing
more than the trunk of a tree lately blown down by the wind, and still
bearing all its branches.
"Do you think you can walk over that?" he asked Petit-Pierre.
"If you can, I can," replied the latter.
"Hold on to the branches, and don't have any conceit about your
powers; don't raise one foot till you are quite sure the other is
firm," said Bonneville, climbing first on to the trunk of the tree.
"I'm to follow, I suppose?"
"Wait till I can give you a hand."
"Here I am! Goodness! what a number of things one ought to know in
order to roam the wilds; I never should have thought it."
"Don't talk, for God's sake! pay attention to your feet. One moment!
Stop where you are; don't move. Here's a branch you can't get by; I'll
cut it."
Just as he stooped to do as he said, the count heard a smothered cry
behind him and the fall of a body into the water. He looked back.
Petit-Pierre had disappeared.
Without losing a second, Bonneville dropped into the same place; and
his luck served him well, for going to the bottom of the river, which
was not more than eight feet deep at this place, his hand came in
contact with Petit-Pierre's leg.
He seized it, trembling with emotion, and paying no heed to the
uncomfortable position in which he held the body he struck out for the
bank of the stream, which was, happily, as narrow as it was deep.
Petit-Pierre made no movement. Bonneville took him in his arms and
laid him on the dry leaves, calling, entreating, even shaking him.
Petit-Pierre continued silent and motionless. The count tore his hair
in his anguish.
"Oh, it is my fault! my fault!" he cried. "O God, you have punished my
pride! I counted too much on myself; I thought I could save her. Oh,
my life,--take my life, God! for one sigh, one breath--"
The cool night air did more to bring Petit-Pierre to life than all
Bonneville's lamentations; at the end of a few minutes he opened his
eyes and sneezed.
Bonneville, who, in his paroxysm of grief, swore not to survive the
being whose death he thought he had caused, gave a cry of joy and fell
on his knees by Petit-Pierre, who was now sufficiently recovered to
understand his last words.
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "you didn't say 'God bless you!' when
I sneezed, and now I shall have a cold in my head."
"Living! living! living!" cried Bonneville, as exuberant in his joy as
he was in his grief.
"Yes, living enough, thanks to you. If you were any other than you
are, I would swear to you never to forget it."
"You are soaked!"
"Yes, my shoes especially, Bonneville. The water keeps running down,
running down in a most disagreeable manner."
"And no fire! no means to make one!"
"Pooh! we shall get warm in walking. I speak in the plural, for you
must be as wet as I am; in fact, it's your third bath,--one was of
mud."
"Oh, don't think of me! Can you walk?"
"I believe so, as soon as I empty my shoes."
Bonneville helped Petit-Pierre to get rid of the water which filled
her shoes. Then he took off his own thick jacket, and having wrung the
water from it, he put it over her shoulders, saying:--
"Now for Benaste, and fast, too!"
"Ha! Bonneville," exclaimed Petit-Pierre; "a fine gain we have made by
trying to avoid that camp-fire which would be everything to us just
now!"
"We can't go back and deliver ourselves up," said Bonneville, with a
look of despair.
"Nonsense! don't take my little joke as a reproach. What an
ill-regulated mind you have! Come, let us march, march! Now that I use
my legs I feel I am drying up; in ten minutes I shall begin to
perspire."
There was no need to hasten Bonneville. He advanced so rapidly that
Petit-Pierre could barely keep up with him; and from time to time she
was forced to remind him that her legs were not as long as his.
But Bonneville could not recover from the shock of emotion caused by
the accident to his young companion, and he now completely lost his
head on discovering that, among these bushes he once knew so well, he
had missed his way. A dozen times he had stopped as he entered a
"line" path and looked about him, and each time, after shaking his
head, he plunged onward in a sort of frenzy.
At last Petit-Pierre, who could scarcely keep up with him, except by
running, said, as she noticed his increasing agitation:--
"Tell me what is the matter, dear count."
"The matter is that I am a wretched man," said Bonneville. "I relied
too much on my knowledge of these localities, and--and--"
"We have lost our way?"
"I fear so."
"And I am sure of it. See, here is a branch I remember breaking when
we passed here just now; we are turning in a circle. You see how I
profit by your lessons, Bonneville," added Petit-Pierre, triumphantly.
"Ah!" said Bonneville; "I see what set me wrong."
"What was it?"
"When we left the water I landed on the side we had just left, and in
my agitation at your accident, I did not notice the mistake."
"So that our plunge bath was absolutely useless!" cried Petit-Pierre,
laughing heartily.
"Oh! for God's sake, Madame, don't laugh like that; your gayety cuts
me to the heart."
"Well, it warms me."
"Then you are cold?"
"A little; but that's not the worst."
"What is worse?"
"Why, for half an hour you have not dared to tell me we are lost, and
for half an hour I've not dared to tell you that my legs seem to be
giving way and refusing to do their duty."
"Then what is to become of us?"
"Well, well! am I to play your part as man and give you courage? So be
it. The council is open; what is your opinion?"
"That we cannot reach Benaste to-night."
"Next?"
"That we must try to get to the nearest farmhouse before daylight."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre. "Have you any idea of where we are?"
"No stars in the sky, no moon--"
"And no compass," added Petit-Pierre, laughing, and trying by a joke
to revive her companion's nerve.
"Wait."
"Ah! you have an idea, I'm sure!"
"I happened to notice the vane on the castle just at dusk; the wind
was east."
Bonneville wet his finger in his mouth and held it up.
"What's that for?"
"A weathercock. There's the north," he said, unhesitatingly; "if we
walk in the teeth of the wind we shall come out on the plain near
Saint-Philbert."
"Yes, by walking; but that's the difficulty."
"Will you let me carry you in my arms?"
"You have enough to carry in yourself, my poor Bonneville."
The duchess rose with an effort, for during the last few moments she
had seated herself, or rather let herself drop, at the foot of a tree.
"There!" she said; "now I am on my feet, and I mean that these
rebellious legs shall carry me. I will conquer them as I would all
rebels; that's what I'm here for."
And the brave woman made four or five steps; but her fatigue was so
great, her limbs so stiffened by the icy bath she had taken, that she
staggered and came near falling. Bonneville sprang to support her.
"Heart of God!" she cried; "let me alone, Monsieur de Bonneville. I
will put this miserable body that God has made so frail and delicate
on the level of the soul it covers. Don't give it any help, count;
don't support it. Ha! you stagger, do you? ha! you are giving way?
Well, if you won't march at the common step you shall be made to
charge, and we'll see if in a week you are not as submissive to my
will as a beast of burden."
So saying, and joining the action to the word, Petit-Pierre started
forward at such a pace that her guide had some difficulty in
overtaking her. But the last effort exhausted her; and when Bonneville
did rejoin her, she was once more seated, with her face hidden in her
two hands. Petit-Pierre was weeping,--weeping with anger rather than
pain.
"O God!" she muttered; "you have set me the task of a giant, but you
have given me only the strength of a woman."
Willing or not, Bonneville took Petit-Pierre in his arms and hurried
along. The words that Gaspard had said to him as they left the vaults
rang in his ears. He felt that so delicate a body could not bear up
any longer under these violent shocks, and he resolved to spend his
last strength in putting the treasure confided to him in a place of
safety. He knew now that a few moments wasted might mean death to his
companion.
For over fifteen minutes the brave man kept on rapidly. His hat fell
off, but no longer caring for the trail he left behind him, the count
did not stop to pick it up. He felt the body of the duchess shuddering
with cold in his arms, he heard her teeth chattering; and the sound
spurred him as the applause of a crowd spurs a race-horse, and gave
him superhuman energy.
But, little by little, this fictitious strength gave way. Bonneville's
legs would only obey him mechanically; the blood seemed to settle on
his chest and choked him. He felt his heart swell; he could not
breathe; his breath rattled; a cold sweat poured from his brow; his
arteries throbbed as if his head must burst. From time to time a thick
cloud covered his eyes, marbled with flame. Soon he staggered at every
slope, stumbled at every stone; his failing knees, powerless to
straighten themselves, could only go forward by a mighty effort.
"Stop! stop! Monsieur de Bonneville," cried Petit-Pierre; "stop, I
command you!"
"No, I will not stop," replied Bonneville. "I have still some
strength, thank God! and I shall use it to the end. Stop? stop? when
we are almost into port? when at the cost of a little further effort I
shall put you in safety? There! see that; look there!"
And as he spoke they saw at the end of the path they were following a
broad band of ruddy light which rose above the horizon; and on that
glow a black and angular shape stood out distinctly, indicating a
house. Day was dawning. They had now reached the end of the wood and
were at the edge of fields.
But just as Bonneville gave that cry of joy, his legs bent under him;
he fell to his knees. Then, with a last supreme effort, he cast
himself gently backward as if at the moment when his consciousness
left him he meant to spare his precious burden from the dangers of a
fall. Petit-Pierre released herself from his grasp and stood at his
feet, but so feebly that she seemed scarcely stronger than her
companion. She tried to raise the count, but could not do it.
Bonneville, for his part, put his hands to his mouth,--no doubt to
give the owl's cry of the Chouans; but his breath failed him, and he
scarcely uttered the words, "Don't forget--" before he fainted
entirely.
The house they had seen was not more than seven or eight hundred steps
from the place where Bonneville had fallen. Petit-Pierre determined to
go there and ask at all risks for assistance to her friend. Making a
supreme effort she started in that direction. Just as she passed a
crossway Petit-Pierre saw a man on one of the paths that led to it.
She called to him, but he did not turn his head.
Then Petit-Pierre, either by a sudden inspiration or because she gave
that meaning to Bonneville's last words, utilized a lesson the count
had taught her. Putting her hands to her mouth she uttered, as best
she could, the cry of the screech-owl.
The man stopped instantly, turned back, and came to Petit-Pierre.
"My friend," she cried, as soon as he came within reach of her voice,
"if you need gold, I will give it to you; but, for God's sake, come
and help me save an unfortunate man who is dying."
Then, with all her remaining strength, and seeing that the man was
following her, Petit-Pierre hurried back to Bonneville and raised his
head by an effort. The count was still unconscious.
As soon as the new-comer reached them and glanced at the prostrate
man, he said:--
"You need not offer me gold to induce me to help Monsieur le Comte de
Bonneville."
Petit-Pierre looked at the man attentively.
"Jean Oullier!" she cried, recognizing the Marquis de Souday's keeper
in the dawning light,--"Jean Oullier, can you find a safe refuge for
my friend and for me close by?"
"There is no house but this within a mile or two," he said.
He spoke of it with repugnance, but Petit-Pierre either did not or
would not notice the tone.
"You must guide me and carry him."
"Down _there?_" cried Jean Oullier.
"Yes; are not they royalists?--the persons who live in that house, I
mean."
"I don't know yet," said Jean Oullier.
"Go on; I put our lives in your hands, Jean Oullier, and I know that
you deserve my utmost confidence."
Jean Oullier took Bonneville, still unconscious, on his shoulders, and
led Petit-Pierre by the hand. He walked toward the house, which was
that belonging to Joseph Picaut and his sister-in-law, the widow of
Pascal.
Jean Oullier mounted the hedge-bank as easily as though he were only
carrying a game-bag, instead of the body of a man. Once in the
orchard, however, he advanced cautiously. Every one was still sleeping
in Joseph's part of the house; but it was not so in the widow's room.
In the gleam from the windows a shadow could be seen passing to and
fro behind the curtains.
Jean Oullier seemed now to decide between two courses.
"Faith! weighing one against the other," he muttered to himself, "I
like it as well this way."
And he walked resolutely to that part of the house which belonged to
Pascal. When he reached the door he opened it. Pascal's body lay on
the bed. The widow had lighted two candles, and was praying beside the
dead. Hearing the door open, she rose and turned round.
"Widow Pascal," said Jean Oullier, without releasing his burden or the
hand of Petit-Pierre, "I saved your life to-night at the Viette des
Biques."
Marianne looked at him in astonishment, as if trying to recall her
recollections.
"Don't you believe me?"
"Yes, Jean Oullier, I believe you; I know you are not a man to tell a
lie, were it even to save your life. Besides, I heard the shot and I
suspected whose hand fired it."
"Widow Pascal, will you avenge your husband and make your fortune at
one stroke? I bring you the means."
"How?"
"Here," continued Jean Oullier, "are Madame la Duchesse de Berry and
Monsieur le Comte de Bonneville, who might have died, perhaps, of
hunger and fatigue, if I had not come, as I have, to ask you to
shelter them; here they are."
The widow looked at all three in stupefaction, yet with a visible
interest.
"This head, which you see here," continued Jean Oullier, "is worth its
weight in gold. You can deliver it up if you so please, and, as I told
you, avenge your husband and make your fortune by that act."
"Jean Oullier," replied the widow, in a grave voice, "God commands us
to do charity to all, whether great or small. Two unfortunate persons
have come to my door; I shall not repulse them. Two exiles ask me to
shelter them, and my house shall crumble about my ears before I betray
them." Then, with a simple gesture, to which her action gave a
splendid grandeur, she added:--
"Enter, Jean Oullier; enter fearlessly,--you, and those who are with
you."
They entered. While Petit Pierre was helping Jean Oullier to place the
count in a chair, the old keeper said to her in a low voice:--
"Madame, put back your own fair hair behind your wig; it made me guess
the truth I have told this woman, but others ought not to see it."