For the last twenty-four hours Bertha's anxiety had been extreme. It
was not only on Courtin that her suspicions fell; they extended to
Michel himself.
Her recollections of that evening preceding the fight at Chêne, the
apparition of a man at her sister's window, had never entirely left
Bertha's mind; from time to time they crossed it like a flash of
flame, leaving behind them a painful furrow, which the passive
attitude taken toward her by Michel during his convalescence was far
from soothing. But when she learned that Courtin, whom she supposed to
have acted under Michel's directions, had ordered the schooner to
sail, and when, above all, she returned, frightened and breathless
with love, to the farmhouse at La Logerie, and did not find him whom
she came to seek, then indeed her jealous suspicions became intense.
Nevertheless, she forgot all to obey the duty laid upon her by the
widow; before that duty all considerations must give way, even those
of her love. She ran to the stable without losing another moment;
chose the horse that seemed to her most fit to do the distance
rapidly; gave him a double feed of oats to put into his legs the
elasticity they needed; threw upon his back, as he ate, the sort of
pack-saddle used in those regions; and, bridle in hand, waited until
the animal had finished eating.
As she stood there waiting, a sound, well-known in those days, reached
her ears. It was that of the regular tramp of a troop of armed men. At
the same moment a loud knocking was heard on the inn door.
Through a glazed sash, which looked into a bake-house that opened into
the kitchen, the young girl saw the soldiers, and discovered at the
first words they said that they wanted a guide. At that moment
everything was significant to Bertha; she trembled for her father, for
Michel, for Petit-Pierre. She therefore would not start until she had
found out what these men were after. Confident of not being recognized
in the peasant-woman's dress she wore, she passed through the
bake-house and entered the kitchen. A lieutenant was in command of the
little squad.
"Do you mean," he was saying to Mère Chompré, "that there's not a man
in the house,--not one?"
"No, monsieur; my daughter is a widow; and the only hostler we have is
out somewhere, but I don't know where."
"Well, your daughter is the person I want. If she were here she would
serve us as guide, as she did at the Springs of Baugé one famous
night; or, if she couldn't come herself, she might tell us of some one
to take her place. I know I could trust her; but these miserable
peasants, half Chouans, whom we compel to guide us against their will,
never leave us an easy moment."
"Mistress Picaut is absent; but perhaps we can supply some one in her
place," said Bertha, advancing resolutely. "Are you going far,
gentlemen?"
"Bless my soul! a pretty girl!" said the young officer, approaching
her. "Guide me where you will, my beauty, and the devil take me if I
don't follow you!"
Bertha lowered her eyes and twisted the corner of her apron like a
bashful village-girl, as she answered:--
"If it isn't very far from here, and the mistress is willing, I'll go
with you myself. I know the neighborhood."
"Agreed!" cried the lieutenant.
"But on one condition," continued Bertha,--"that some one shall bring
me back here. I am afraid to be out in the roads alone."
"God forbid I should yield that privilege to any one, my dear, even if
it costs me my epaulets!" said the officer. "Do you know the way to
Banl[oe]uvre?"
At the name of the farmhouse belonging to Michel, where she had lived
herself for some days with the marquis and Petit-Pierre, Bertha felt a
shudder run through her body, a cold sweat came upon her forehead, her
heart beat violently, but she managed to master her emotion.
"Banl[oe]uvre?" she repeated. "No, that's not in our parts. Is it a
village or a château, Banl[oe]uvre?"
"It is a farmhouse."
"A farmhouse! Whom does it belong to?"
"To a gentleman of your neighborhood."
"Are you billeted at Banl[oe]uvre?"
"No; we have an expedition there."
"What is an expedition?"
"Well done!" cried the lieutenant. "Here's a pretty girl who wants
information!"
"Natural enough, too. If I take you, or get some one to take you to
Banl[oe]uvre, of course I want to know why you are going there."
"We are going," said the sub-lieutenant, joining in the conversation
for the sake of showing his wit, "to give a white such a dose of lead
that he'll turn blue."
"Ah!" cried Bertha, unable to repress the exclamation.
"Hey! what's the matter with you?" asked the lieutenant. "If we had
told you the name of the man we are going to arrest, I should have
said you were in love with him."
"I?" said Bertha, calling up her strength of mind to hide the terror
in her heart. "I, in love with a gentleman?"
"Kings have married shepherdesses," said the sub-lieutenant, who
seemed to be of a comic humor.
"Well, well!" cried the lieutenant; "here's the shepherdess fainting
away like a fine lady."
"I? fainting!" exclaimed Bertha, endeavoring to laugh. "Nonsense, we
don't have city manners here!"
"Nevertheless, you are as pale as your linen, my pretty girl."
"Goodness! you talk of shooting a man as you would a rabbit in a
hedge!"
"Not at all the same thing," said the sub-lieutenant; "for a rabbit is
good to eat, whereas a dead Chouan is good for nothing."
Bertha could not prevent her proud, energetic face from betraying, by
its expression, the disgust she felt at the jokes of the young
officer.
"Ah, _ça!_" said the lieutenant, "you are not as patriotic as your
mistress. I see we sha'n't get much help from you."
"I am patriotic; but much as I hate my enemies, I can't see them
killed with a dry eye."
"Pooh!" said the officer, "you'll get accustomed to it, just as we
soldiers get accustomed to sleeping on the high-roads instead of our
beds. To-night, when the letter of that cursed peasant came to the
guard-house at Saint-Martin, and obliged me to start off at once, I
damned the State to all the devils. Well, I now see I was wrong, for
it has its compensations,--in fact, instead of cursing and swearing, I
find the expedition charming."
So saying, and as if to add to the pleasures of the situation, he
stooped and tried to snatch a kiss from the neck of the young girl.
Bertha, who did not suspect his amorous intention, felt the young
man's breath upon her face and started away, red as a pomegranate, her
nostrils quivering, her eyes sparkling with indignation.
"Oh, oh!" continued the lieutenant, "you are not going to get angry
for a silly kiss, are you, my beauty?"
"Do you think, because I am a poor country-girl, that I can be
insulted with impunity?"
"'Insulted with impunity'! hey, what fine language!" said the
sub-lieutenant; "and they told us we were coming to a land of
savages."
"Do you know," said the lieutenant, looking fixedly at Bertha, "that
I've a great mind to do something."
"Do what?"
"Arrest you on suspicion, and not let you off till you pay me the
ransom I would set upon your liberty."
"What would that be?"
"A kiss."
"I can't let you kiss me, because you are neither my father, nor
brother, nor husband."
"Are they the only ones who will have the right to put their lips to
those pretty cheeks?"
"Of course they are."
"Why so?"
"I don't wish to forget my duty."
"Your duty! oh, you little joker!"
"Don't you think we peasant-girls have our duties as well as you
soldiers have yours? Come" (Bertha tried to laugh), "if I were to ask
you the name of the man you are going to arrest, and it would be
against your duty to tell it, would you tell it to me?"
"Faith," said the young man, "I shouldn't fail much in duty if I did
tell you; for there isn't, I think, the slightest harm in your knowing
it."
"But suppose there were any harm?"
"Oh, then--but I declare I don't know; your eyes have turned my head,
and I really can't say what I should do. Well, yes, if you are really
as curious as I am weak, I'll tell you that name and betray the
country; only, I must be paid for it with a kiss."
Bertha's apprehensions were so great,--she was so convinced that
Michel was the object of the expedition,--that she forgot, with her
usual impetuosity, all caution, and without reflecting on the
suspicions she gave rise to by her persistency, she abruptly offered
him her cheek. He took two resounding kisses.
"Give and take," he said, laughing. "The name of the man we are going
to arrest is Monsieur de Vincé."
Bertha drew back and looked at the officer. A misgiving crossed her
mind that he had tricked her.
"Come, let's start," said the lieutenant to his subordinate. "I shall
go and ask the mayor for the guide we evidently can't get here."
Turning to Bertha he added, "Any guide he may give me won't please me
as you do, my dear," and he gave an affected sigh. Then he called to
his men: "Forward there, march!"
Before starting himself he asked for a match to light his cigar.
Bertha searched in vain on the mantel-piece. The officer then took a
paper from his pocket and lighted it at the lamp. Bertha watched his
movements and threw a glance at the paper, which the flames were
beginning to shrivel up, and she distinctly saw there Michel's name.
"I suspected it," thought she. "He lied to me. Yes, yes, it is Michel
they are going to arrest."
As the officer threw down the half-burned paper, she put her foot upon
it with some difficulty, and the officer took advantage of her motions
to seize another kiss.
"Hush!" he said, putting his finger on his lip; "you are not a
peasant-girl. Look out for yourself, if you have any reason for
hiding. If you play your part as badly with those who are seeking you
as you have with me, who am not instructed to arrest you, you are
lost."
So saying, he hastily turned away, fearing perhaps to be lost himself.
He was no sooner out of sight than Bertha seized the remains of the
paper. It contained the denunciation that Courtin had sent to Nantes
by the peasant Matthieu, which the latter, to save himself trouble,
had put into the first post-office he came to. This post-office was
that of Saint-Martin, the next village to Saint-Philbert.
Enough remained unburned of Courtin's writing to enlighten Bertha as
to the object of the troop now advancing on Banl[oe]uvre. Her head
swam. If the sentence already pronounced on the young man were
executed by the soldiers, Michel would be dead in two hours; she saw
him, a bloody corpse, reddening the earth about him. Her mind gave
way.
"Where is Jean Oullier?" she cried to the old landlady.
"Jean Oullier?" said the latter, gazing stolidly at the girl. "I don't
know what you mean."
"I ask you, where is Jean Oullier?"
"Isn't Jean Oullier dead?" replied Mère Chompré.
"But your daughter, where has your daughter gone?"
"I'm sure I don't know; she never tells me where she is going when she
goes out. She is old enough to be the mistress of her own actions."
Bertha thought of the Picaut cottage; but to go there would take her
an hour, and it might prove a waste of time. That hour would suffice
to insure Michel's death.
"She will be back in a minute," she said to the old woman. "When she
comes tell her I could not go as soon as she expected to the place she
knows of; but I will be there before daylight."
Running to the stables, she slipped the bridle on the horse, sprang
upon his back, rode him out of the building, and giving him a vigorous
blow with a switch, put him at once into a gait that was neither trot
nor gallop, but fast enough to gain half an hour at least on the
soldiers. As she crossed the market-place of Saint-Philbert she heard
on her right the receding footsteps of the little troop.
Then she took her bearings, passed the houses, dashed her horse into
the river Boulogne, and came out to join the road a little above the
forest of Machecoul.