"Monsieur le baron and I have been talking here for the last half hour
or more."
Bertha looked fixedly at the old Vendéan.
"That is singular!" she said.
"Why singular?" asked Jean Oullier, fixing his own eyes steadily upon
her.
"Because," said Bertha, addressing Michel and not Jean Oullier.
"because I thought I heard you talking with my sister at her window,
and saw you climbing down the mill-wheel which you had mounted to
reach her."
"Monsieur le baron doesn't look as if he had just performed such an
acrobatic feat," said Jean Oullier, sarcastically.
"Then who do you suppose it was, Jean?" said Bertha, stamping her foot
impatiently.
"Oh, some of those drunkards over there, who were playing a trick."
"But I tell you that Mary was pale and trembling."
"With fright," said Jean Oullier. "She hasn't got your iron nerves."
Bertha grew thoughtful. She knew the feelings that Jean Oullier
cherished against the young baron; therefore she could hardly suppose
he was in league with him against her. After a moment's silence her
thoughts reverted to Mary, and she remembered that she had left her
almost fainting.
"Yes," she said; "yes. Jean Oullier, you are right. The poor child
must have been frightened, and I, with my rough ways, have made
matters worse. Oh," she muttered, "this love is making me beside
myself!"
Then, without another word to Michel or Jean Oullier, she rushed into
the mill.
Jean Oullier looked at Michel, who lowered his eyes.
"I shall not reproach you," he said to the young man, "but you must
see now on what a powder-barrel you are stepping. What would have
happened if I had not been here to lie, God forgive me! as if I were a
liar born."
"Yes," said Michel, "you are right, Jean,--I know it; and the proof is
that I swear to follow you, for I see plainly I can't stay here any
longer."
"That's right. The Nantes men will start in a few moments; the marquis
joins them with his division; start yourself at the same time, but
fall behind and join me, you know where."
Michel went off to fetch his horse, and Jean Oullier, meantime,
obtained his last instructions from the marquis. The Vendéans camping
in the orchard now formed in line, their arms sparkling in the
shadows. A quiver of repressed impatience ran through the ranks.
Presently Petit-Pierre, followed by the principal leaders, came out of
the house and advanced to the Vendéans. She was hardly recognized
before a mighty cry of enthusiasm burst from every mouth. Sabres were
drawn to salute her for whose cause each man was prepared to die.
"My friends," said Petit-Pierre, advancing, "I promised I would be
present at the first armed meeting; and here I am, never to leave you.
Fortunate or unfortunate, your fate shall be mine henceforth. If I
cannot--as my son would have done--rally you to where my white plume
shines, I can--as he would--die with you! Go, sons of giants, go where
duty and honor call you!"
Frantic cries of "Vive Henri V! Vive Marie-Caroline!" welcomed this
allocution. Petit-Pierre addressed a few more words to those of the
leaders whom she knew; and then the little troop on which rested the
fate of the oldest monarchy in Europe took its way in the direction of
Vieille-Vigne.
During this time Bertha had been showering attentions on her sister,
all the more eager because of her sudden change of feeling. She
carried her to her bed and bathed her face in cold water. Mary opened
her eyes and looked about her in a bewildered way, murmuring in a low
voice Michel's name. Her heart revived before her reason.
Bertha shuddered. She was about to ask Mary to forgive her violence,
but Michel's name on her sister's lips stopped the words in her
throat. For the second time the serpents of jealousy were gnawing at
her heart.
Just then the acclamations with which the Vendéans welcomed the
address of Petit-Pierre reached her ears. She went to the window of
the next room and saw the waving line of a dark mass among the trees,
lighted here and there with flashes. It was the column just beginning
its march. The thought struck her that Michel, who was certainly with
that column, had gone without bidding her good-bye; and she returned,
thoughtful, uneasy, and gloomy to her sister's bedside.