BARON MICHEL BECOMES BERTHA's AIDE-DE-CAMP.
Jean Oullier went down, as we have said, in haste; perhaps he was more
anxious to get away from the young girl than to obey the call of the
marquis. He found the latter in the courtyard, and beside him stood a
peasant, covered with mud and sweat.
The man had just brought news that Pascal Picaut's house was
surrounded by soldiers; he had seen them go in, and that was all he
knew. He had been stationed among the gorse on the road to
Sablonnière, with orders from Jean Oullier to come to the château at
once if the soldiers should go in the direction of the house where the
fugitives had taken refuge. This mission he had fulfilled to the
letter.
The marquis, to whom of course Jean Oullier had told how he left
Petit-Pierre and the Comte de Bonneville in Pascal Picaut's house, was
terribly alarmed.
"Jean Oullier! Jean Oullier!" he kept repeating, in the tone of
Augustus calling, "Varus! Varus!" "Jean Oullier, why did you trust
others instead of yourself? If any misfortune has happened my poor
house will be dishonored before it is ruined!"
Jean Oullier did not answer; he held his head down gloomily, in
silence. This silence and immovability exasperated the marquis.
"My horse! my horse, Jean Oullier!" he cried; "and if that lad, whom
yesterday, not knowing who he was, I called _my young friend_, is made
prisoner by the Blues, let us show by dying to deliver him that we
were not unworthy of his confidence."
But Jean Oullier shook his head.
"What!" exclaimed the marquis; "don't you mean to fetch my horse?"
"Jean is right," said Bertha, who had come upon the scene and had
heard her father's order and Jean Oullier's refusal; "we must not risk
anything by precipitate action." Turning to the scout, she asked, "Did
you see the soldiers leave Picaut's house with prisoners?"
"No; I saw them knock down the _gars_ Malherbe, whom Jean Oullier
stationed on the rise of the hill, and I watched them till they
entered Picaut's orchard. Then I came here at once, as Jean Oullier
ordered me to do."
"Are you sure, Jean Oullier," said Bertha, "that you can answer for
the faithfulness of the woman in whose charge you left them?"
"Yesterday," he said, giving Bertha a reproachful look, "I should have
said of Marianne Picaut that I could trust her as myself; but--"
"But?" questioned Bertha.
"But to-day," said the old man, with a sigh, "I doubt everything."
"Come, come!" cried the marquis; "all this is time lost. My horse!
bring my horse! and in ten minutes I shall know the truth."
But Bertha stopped him.
"Ha!" he exclaimed; "is this the way I am obeyed in this house? What
can I expect from others if in my own family no one obeys my orders?"
"Your orders are sacred, father," said Bertha,--"to your daughters,
above all; but your ardor is carrying you away. Do not forget that
those for whose safety we are so anxious are merely peasants in the
eyes of others. If the Marquis de Souday goes himself in search of two
missing peasants their importance will be known directly, and the news
will reach our enemies."
"Mademoiselle Bertha is right," said Jean Oullier; "it is better for
me to go."
"Not you, any more than my father," said Bertha.
"Why not?"
"Because you run too great a risk in going over there."
"I went there this morning; and if I ran that risk to find out whose
ball killed my poor Pataud, I can certainly do the same to learn news
of M. de Bonneville and Petit-Pierre."
"I tell you, Jean," persisted Bertha, "that after all that happened
yesterday you must not show yourself where the soldiers are. We must
find some one who is not compromised, and who can get to the heart of
the matter without exciting suspicion."
"How unlucky that that animal of a Loriot would go back to Machecoul!"
said the marquis. "I begged him to stay; I had a presentiment that I
should want him."
"Well, haven't you Monsieur Michel?" said Jean Oullier, in a sarcastic
tone; "you can send him to the Picaut's house, or anywhere else,
without suspicion. If there were ten thousand men guarding it they'd
let him in; and no one, I am sure, would imagine he came on any
business of yours."
"Yes; he is just the person we want," said Bertha, accepting the
support thus given to her secret purpose, and ignoring Jean Oullier's
malicious intention in making it. "Isn't he, father?"
"On my soul, I think so!" cried the marquis. "Though he is rather
effeminate in appearance, the young man may turn out very useful."
At the first rumor of alarm Michel had approached the marquis, as if
awaiting orders. When he heard Bertha's proposition, and saw it
accepted by her father, his face became radiant. Bertha herself was
beaming.
"Are you ready to do all that is necessary for the safety of
Petit-Pierre, Monsieur Michel?" she said.
"I am ready to do anything you wish, mademoiselle, in order to prove
my gratitude to Monsieur le marquis for the friendly welcome I have
received from him."
"Very good. Then take a horse--not mine; it would be recognized--and
gallop over there. Go into the house unarmed, as though curiosity
alone brought you, and if our friends are in danger light a fire of
brush on the heath. During that time Jean Oullier will assemble his
men; and then, in a body and well-armed, we can fly to the support of
those so dear to us."
"Bravo!" cried the Marquis de Souday; "I have always said that Bertha
was the strong-minded one of the family."
Bertha smiled with pride and looked at Michel.
"And you," she said to her sister, who had now come down and joined
them quietly, just as Michel departed to get his horse,--"and you,
don't you mean to dress and go with us?"
"No," replied Mary.
"Why not?"
"I mean to stay as I am."
"Oh! you can't mean it!"
"Yes, I do," said Mary, with a sad smile. "In an army there are always
sisters of mercy to care for the fighting men and comfort them; I
shall be the sister of mercy."
Bertha looked at Mary with amazement. She may have been about to
question her as to this sudden change of mind; but at that instant
Michel, already mounted on the horse provided for him, reappeared,
and approaching Bertha stopped the words upon her lips. Addressing her
as the one to whom he looked for orders, he said:--
"You told me what I was to do in case some misfortune has happened at
the Picaut house, mademoiselle; but you have not told me what to do in
case I find Petit-Pierre safe and well."
"In that case," said the marquis, "come back here, and set our minds
at ease."
"No, no," said Bertha, who was determined to give the man she loved
some important part to play; "such goings to and fro would excite
suspicion in the various troops now stationed about the forest. You
had better stay at the Picauts' or in the neighborhood till nightfall,
and then go and wait for us at the July oak. You know where that is,
don't you?"
"I should think so!" said Michel; "it is on the road to Souday."
Michel knew every oak and every tree on that road.
"Very good!" said Bertha; "we will be in the woods near by. Make the
signal,--three cries of the screech-owl and one hoot,--and we will
join you. Go on, dear Monsieur Michel."
Michel bowed to the marquis and to the two young ladies. Then, bending
forward over the neck of his horse, he started at a gallop. He was, in
truth, an excellent rider, and Bertha called attention to the fact
that in turning short out of the _porte cochère_, he had very cleverly
made his horse change step.
"It is amazing how easy it is to make a well-bred gentleman out of a
rustic like that," said the marquis, re-entering the château. "It is
true that women must have a finger in it. That young man is really
passable."
"Oh, yes; well-bred gentlemen, indeed! They are easy enough to make;
but men of heart and soul are another thing," muttered Jean Oullier.
"Jean Oullier," said Bertha, "you are forgetting my advice. Take
care."
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle," replied Jean Oullier. "It is, on the
contrary, because I have forgotten nothing that you see me so
troubled. I thought my aversion to that young man might be remorse,"
he muttered; "but I begin to fear it is presentiment."
"Remorse!--you, Jean Oullier?"
"Ah! did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't unsay it."
"What remorse have you about him?"
"None about him," said Jean Oullier, in a gloomy voice; "I meant his
father."
"His father?" said Bertha, shivering in spite of herself.
"Yes," said Jean Oullier. "My name was changed in a day because of
him; I was no longer Jean Oullier."
"What were you then?"
"Chastisement."
"On his father?"
Then, remembering all that was told in the region, of the death of
Baron Michel the older, she exclaimed:--
"His father! found dead at a hunt! Ah, miserable man! what do you
mean?"
"That the son may avenge his father by bringing mourning for mourning
upon us."
"In what way?"
"Through you, and because you love him madly."
"What of that?"
"I can myself assure you of one thing."
"And that is?"
"That he does not love you."
Bertha shrugged her shoulders disdainfully; but the blow nevertheless
reached her heart. A feeling that was almost hatred to the old Vendéan
came over her.
"Employ yourself in collecting your men, Jean Oullier," she said.
"I obey you, mademoiselle," replied the Chouan.
He went toward the gate. Bertha returned to the house, without giving
him another look. But before leaving the château, Jean Oullier called
up the peasant who had brought the news.
"Before the soldiers got to Picaut's house did you see any one else go
in there?"
"To Joseph's place, or Pascal's?"
"Pascal's."
"Yes, I saw one man go in."
"Who was he?"
"The mayor of La Logerie."
"You say he went into Pascal's part of the house?"
"I am sure of it."
"You saw him?"
"As plain as I see you."
"Which way did he go when he left it?"
"Toward Machecoul."
"The same way by which the soldiers came soon after, wasn't it?"
"Exactly; it wasn't half an hour after he left before they came."
"Good!" ejaculated Jean Oullier. Shaking his clenched fist in the
direction of La Logerie, he muttered to himself, "Ah, Courtin!
Courtin! you are tempting God. My dog killed yesterday, this treachery
to-day,--you try my patience too far!"