Come to me as soon as possible; you know the passwords.
Your affectionate
PETIT-PIERRE.
"To whom is that letter addressed?" asked the man in the cloak.
"To Mademoiselle Bertha de Souday."
"Her name is not on the cover, nor at the bottom of the page."
"Because a letter might be lost."
"And you are commissioned to deliver that letter?"
"Yes."
The man gave a second glance at the paper.
"The writing is certainly hers," he said. "Ah! if you had only allowed
me to accompany you we should have her by this time."
"What does that matter, if you are sure of her later?"
"Yes, true. When shall I see you again?"
"Day after to-morrow."
"Here, or in the country?"
"At Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu; that is half way between Nantes and
my house."
"I hope next time you won't stir me up for nothing."
"I promise you that."
"Try to keep your word; I keep mine. Here's the money. See, I hold it
ready, so that you may not have to wait for it."
He opened his wallet and showed the farmer, complacently, a mass of
bank-bills amounting probably to a hundred thousand francs.
"Oh," said Courtin, "only paper!"
"Paper, of course, but signed 'Garat;' that is a good signature."
"No matter," said Courtin; "I prefer gold."
"Well, gold you shall have," said the other, replacing the portfolio
in his pocket and crossing his mantle over his coat.
If the pair had not been so engrossed in their conversation they would
have seen that a peasant had climbed the wall between the street and
the courtyard by the help of a cart which stood outside, and was
listening to what they said, and gazing at the bank-notes with an air
which implied that in Courtin's place he would have been quite
satisfied with Garat's signature.
"Very good; then the day after to-morrow at Saint-Philbert," repeated
the man in the cloak.
"Day after to-morrow."
"What time?"
"Evening, of course."
"Say seven o'clock. The first comer will wait for the other."
"But you'll bring the money?"
"You mean the gold? yes."
"All right."
"Do you expect to bring the matter to conclusion then?"
"I hope to. It costs nothing to hope."
"Day after to-morrow, at Saint-Philbert, seven o'clock," muttered the
peasant on the wall, letting himself gently down into the street.
"We'll be there." Then he added with a laugh that sounded terribly
like the grinding of teeth: "When a man is branded he ought to earn
his label."