"'Must' to me!" Georges de Sainfoy said between his teeth.

"Let us assure you, monsieur, that we regret the necessity—" Monsieur des Barres interfered in his politest manner.

"Enough, monsieur."

De Sainfoy gave his orders. His servants sprang down and helped the post-boy to back the horses to the foot of the hill. It was a long business, with a great deal of kicking, struggling, scrambling, and swearing. Monsieur des Barres' carriage followed slowly, he and Georges de Sainfoy walking down together. The Baron d'Ombre lingered to say a friendly good-night to Angelot, who was not disposed to wait on his cousin any further. That night there was born a kind of sympathy, new and strange, between the fierce young Chouan and the careless boy still halting between two opinions.

"Old Joubard's son is come back, then?" Cesar asked. "Will that attach the old man to the Empire? Your uncle can never tell us on which side he is likely to be."

"Dame! I should think not!" said Angelot. "Poor Martin—I saw him just now. He has left a leg and an arm in Spain."

"Poor fellow! That flourishing cousin of yours is better off. On my word, we are obliged to you, Monsieur des Barres and I. If you had not been there to bring him to his senses—Come, Angelot, this country is not a place for loyal men. Do you care to stay here and be bullied by upstart soldiers? Start off with me to join the Princes; there is nothing to be done here."

"Ah!" Angelot laughed, though rather sadly. "Indeed, you tempt me—it is true, there is nothing here. But I have a father, and he has a vintage coming on. After that—I will consider."

"Yes, consider—and say nothing. I see you are discontented; the first step in the right way. Good-night, my friend."

If discontent had been despair, the army of the emigrants might have had a lively recruit in those days. But Martin Joubard had come back, so that anything seemed possible. Hope was not dead, and his native Anjou still held the heart of Angelot.



CHAPTER XVIII

HOW CAPTAIN GEORGES PAID A VISIT OF CEREMONY

Georges de Sainfoy had always been his mother's image and idol. It was not wonderful then that he should take her side strongly in this matter of his sister's love affair and marriage.

Helene, for him, was a poor pretty fool just out of the schoolroom, who must learn her duty in life, and the sooner the better. Angelot was a country boy, his pretensions below contempt, who yet deserved sharp punishment for lifting his eyes so high, if not for the cool air of equality with which he had ordered back his superior cousin's carriage. General Ratoneau, in a soldier's eyes, was a distinguished man, a future Marshal of France. Nothing more was needed to make him a desirable brother-in-law. Georges was enthusiastic on that point.

Two things there were, which his mother impressed upon him earnestly and with difficulty; one, that Ratoneau's probable triumph was a secret, and must seem as great a surprise to herself and to him as it really would be to Helene and his father; the other, that for the sake of Urbain de la Mariniere, the valuable friend, he must pick no fresh quarrel with Angelot, already deep in disgrace with all the family.

"It is as well that you told me, or I should have been tempted to try a horse-whipping," said Captain Georges.

Two days after his arrival he rode off to Sonnay-le-Loir. It was the right thing for an officer on leave to pay a visit of ceremony to the General in command of the division, as well as to the Prefect of the department, and this necessity came in very well at the moment.

Madame de Sainfoy spoke confidently, but she was in reality not quite easy in her mind. She had seen and heard nothing of General Ratoneau since the day when Urbain put his short letter into her hand. Sometimes, impatient and anxious, worried by Helene's pale face and the fear of some soft-hearted weakness on Herve's part, she found it difficult to bear day after day of suspense and silence. Suppose the affair were going ill, and not well! Suppose that, after all, the Prefect had refused to gratify the General, and that no imperial command was coming to break down Herve's resistance, strong enough in that quarter! Georges promised her, as he rode away, that the matter should be cleared up to her satisfaction.

He found the town of Sonnay-le-Loir, and General Ratoneau himself, in a state of considerable agitation. The excellent Prefect was very ill. He was never a strong man physically, and the nervous irritation caused by such a colleague as Ratoneau might have been partly the cause of his present collapse. Sorely against his will he had listened to Ratoneau's fresh argument, and had consented to stop a whole string of political arrests by forwarding the marriage the General had set his heart upon. His own personal danger, if he had defied the General, would have been by no means small. Simon was right; Ratoneau could have represented his mild measures in such a light as to ruin him, along with those Angevin gentlemen whom he was trying by gentle means to reconcile with the Empire. At that precise moment he could not even punish the man he suspected of betraying him. Ratoneau had protected his tool so far as to leave him nameless; but in any case, from the imperial point of view, a man who denounced Chouans was doing his duty. As to the fact of sending up Mademoiselle de Sainfoy's name to the Emperor and suggesting for her the very husband whom her father had refused to accept—the chief sin, in the eyes of that day, was the unfriendly action towards her father.

The whole system was odious; it appeared more or less so, according to the degree of refinement in the officials who had to work it; yet it came from the Emperor, and could not be entirely set aside; also every marriage, in one way or another, was an arranged thing; it must suit family politics, if not the interests of the Empire. Nothing strange from the outside—and all the world would look at it so—in the marriage of the Comte de Sainfoy's daughter with the local General of division. The lady's unwillingness was a mere detail, of which the laws of society would take no cognizance. The sentimental view which called such a marriage sacrilege was absurd, after all, and the Prefect knew it. Indeed, after the first, the thought of Helene's face did not trouble him so much as that of the coup de patte in store for her father, the stealthy blow to come from himself, the old, the trusted fellow-countryman.

But the injury to Herve de Sainfoy weighed lightly, after all, when balanced with the arrest and ruin of Joseph de la Mariniere and possibly his young nephew, as well as of Monsieur des Barres, Monsieur de Bourmont, the Messieurs d'Ombre, and other men more or less suspected of conspiring against the Empire. Even if this, perhaps deserved, had been all! but the Prefect knew very well that an enemy such as Ratoneau would not be satisfied without his own degradation.

He had yet one resource, delay. There was the chance that Herve de Sainfoy might arrange some other marriage for his daughter; and the Prefect went so far as to consider the possibility of sending him a word of warning, but then thought it too dangerous, not quite trusting Herve's discretion, and gave up the idea. From day to day he put off sending the necessary papers to Paris. From day to day, after the eventful interview, he managed to avoid any private conversation with Ratoneau. This was possible, as the General was occupied in reviewing the troops in the neighbourhood, and was absent from Sonnay for several days. Then a new ally stepped in on Helene's side, and touched the Prefect gently, but effectively. When General Ratoneau returned to Sonnay, the very day before Georges de Sainfoy's visit, he was met by the news that a slight stroke of paralysis had deprived Monsieur de Mauves of his speech, and of the use of his right hand. Going at once to the Prefecture, roughly demanding an interview with the Prefect, he encountered a will stronger than his own in that of the Sonnay doctor, who absolutely refused to let any one into the sickroom.

"But he must have written to Paris—he must—he promised me that he would," Ratoneau assured Georges de Sainfoy, who stood before him frowning doubtfully. "He dared not disappoint me. I have him under my thumb, I tell you—like that—" he crushed a fly on the table.

"I see—but why all this delay?" said the young man.

Ratoneau drummed with his fist and whistled. "Delay, yes—" he said. "I meant Monsieur le Prefet to give an account of himself yesterday—I suppose I am as impatient as you are—" he grinned. "After all, monsieur, this official business takes time. It is only a fortnight since I brought the good man to his marrow-bones. Ah, I wish you had seen him! the grimaces he made! When I went first he defied me, as bold as you please. Your father was his friend, he would do nothing to annoy your father. Then, when I went back with a little more information, he began to see all his beloved Chouans in prison, as well as himself. I had him then. He began to see, perhaps, that a man in my position was not such an impossible husband for a young girl of good family. Ha, ha!"

"A fortnight seems to me quite long enough to write to Paris and get an answer," said Georges.

He was a little sorry for himself. He wished he had seen Ratoneau for the first time on horseback, a smart, correct officer, reviewing his troops. Then it would have been easy enough to accept him as a brother-in-law. But this red-faced, slovenly creature in careless undress, made even more repulsive by his uncanny likeness to Napoleon—vulgar in manners, bragging in talk! De Sainfoy had met strange varieties of men among his brother officers, but never anything quite so forbidding as this. He did not give his sister a thought of pity; it was not in him; but he had a moment of sympathy with his father, of surprise at his mother. However, he was not the man to be conquered by prejudice. If the affair was disagreeable, all the more reason to push it through quickly, to reach any advantages it might bring. His smooth young brow had a new line across it; that was all.

"You talk of the Prefect's 'beloved Chouans,' Monsieur le General," he said. "It seems to me that in any case he is not fit for his position. It sounds like treason, what you say."

"Ah! that is another question," said Ratoneau. "That need not concern us just now, you and me. He must do what we want, first of all; later on we shall see. Remember, Monsieur le Vicomte, any active measures against the Chouans would touch your family—your connections, at least. Very complicated, the state of society in this province. I wish for nothing better than to sweep out all these tiresome people, but it behoves me to move gently."

Georges could not help smiling. "That must be against your principles and your inclinations, Monsieur le General."

"It is against my interests," Ratoneau said, drily enough. "Inclinations—well, yes. I should be sorry to annoy Monsieur Urbain de la Mariniere, who is on my side in these affairs. He is a sensible man. His brother's right place is in a state prison. As to that son of his—well, he wants a sharp lesson, and one of these days he will have it. He is an impudent young scoundrel, that little La Mariniere."

Ratoneau lifted his dark eyes and looked straight at Georges, who flushed under his gaze.

"But perhaps you think better of your cousin?" the General said.

"No—I dislike him. He is a presumptuous fellow."

"Presumptuous in what way?"

Georges shrugged his shoulders. There were limits to the complaisance he found due to this future relation; the family secrets, the family confidences, though they might indirectly concern him, should at least be kept from him for the present. Georges knew all his sister's story, as far as her mother knew it. The story was safe, though out of no kindness to Helene.

"He thinks too much of himself," said Georges, and laughed rather awkwardly. "He orders his betters about as if he were the chief landowner of the country, instead of a farmer's son. This happened to me the other night, Monsieur le General."

He went on to describe his adventure in the steep lane, and how Angelot had ordered his men to back the horses. The General listened with some impatience.

"Sapristi! he is a hero of the lanes, this Angelot. I have had my experience, too," but he did not describe it. "He will make himself plenty of enemies, that cousin of yours. However, let him swagger as he likes among horses and cows, till he finds himself between four walls with his friends the Chouans. I should like to be assured that his airs will carry him no further. To speak plainly, Monsieur le Vicomte, when I saw them together at Lancilly, I fancied that he and mademoiselle your sister—I see by your face that I was right!"

The General started up with an oath. Georges faced him, cool and dignified.

"My sister is safe in my mother's care, Monsieur le General. Do not disturb yourself."

"But do you know, monsieur, that the servants thought the same as I did?"

"What can that signify to you or to me, monsieur?"

Ratoneau flung himself back into his chair with an angry laugh. The proud disgust of the young captain's tone had a certain effect upon him; yet he was not altogether reassured.

"Will you tell me on your honour," he growled, "that you know nothing of any love affair between that young cub and your sister? I swear, sir, I distrust you all. It is your mother's interest to marry her to me, but—"

"The imperial order has not yet been sent down," said Georges, his blue eyes flashing like steel.

He would have said more; he did not know what he might have said, for at that moment his sympathy with his father was growing by leaps and bounds, and his mother's plan began to seem incomprehensible. However, to do her justice, she had never seen General Ratoneau as he saw him.

"What do you mean by that?" said Ratoneau, sharply, and Georges found himself already repenting.

For the thing had to be carried through, and he knew it.

Further argument was stopped, at that moment, by a gentle tap at the door.

"Come in!" roared the General. "What the devil have you got there, Simon?"

The police agent stepped lightly across the room. He laid a folded paper on the table, and drew out from between its pages an unsealed letter. He spread this out with the signature uppermost, "De Mauves, Prefet du Loir."

Georges de Sainfoy, a silent looker-on, stood by the chimneypiece while General Ratoneau eagerly seized the papers. He first read the letter, which seemed to give him satisfaction, for he laughed aloud; then he snatched up the larger document, which looked like a government report of some kind. Simon, in his gendarme's dress, stood grinning in the background.

"But—but in the name of thunder what does all this mean?" Ratoneau's looks had changed to sudden fury. "Are these copies or originals? Simon, you ass, do you mean to tell me—"

Simon shrugged his shoulders and showed his teeth.

"Sorry, Monsieur le General, but no fault of mine! I made sure they had gone to Paris by the last courier, if not before. The originals, undoubtedly."

"You make sure in a queer sort of way," said Ratoneau. "You told me the Prefect's secretary was in your hands, that you had access to his bureaux at any time. You lied, then?"

"No, Monsieur le General," Simon answered, gently and readily. "Or how should I have got hold of the papers? We have nothing to do now but to get them dispatched at once to the Minister of Police, who will pass them on to Monsieur le Duc de Frioul."

"Go downstairs, and wait till I send for you."

Simon went, not without a side-glance at the silent young officer, standing tall, fair, and stiff as if on parade, no feeling of any sort showing itself through the correctness of his bearing.

"Is that her brother? Curious!" the spy muttered as he slipped away.

General Ratoneau ran his eye once more over the paper in his hand, then looked at Georges and held it out to him.

"The delay is vexatious," he said, "and my friend the Prefect shall pay for it, one of these days. But at any rate, the thing is now in our own hands, and there can be no cheating. Report and letter are what they should be—I might have guessed that the old villain would put off sending them—hoping for some loophole, I suppose. However, you can tell Madame la Comtesse that you have seen the documents, and that they start for Paris to-night."

Georges de Sainfoy read the document, truly a strange one, and it was a strange sort of man who had the effrontery to put it into his hand. Like a flash of blinding light, it showed the revolutionary, the tyrannical side of the Empire which had fascinated him on its side of military glory.

This paper gave a full description, as officially demanded, of Mademoiselle Helene de Sainfoy, aged nineteen. It mentioned her personal attractions, her education distinguee, her probable dowry, the names and position of her parents, the extent and situation of her property—in short, every particular likely to be useful in arranging a marriage for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy. It was all highly complimentary, and it was supposed to be a confidential communication from the Prefect to Savary, Duc de Rovigo, the Minister of Police. But it was not pleasant reading for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy's brother, however devotedly imperialist he might be.

He stepped forward and laid it on the table without a remark. Ratoneau, watching him keenly, smiled, and held out the letter.

"A private letter from Monsieur le Prefet? I do not read it," said Georges, shortly.

"As you please, my friend," said Ratoneau. "I only show you these things for the satisfaction of Madame la Comtesse. Monsieur Urbain de la Mariniere may be interested, too. The letter mentions my distinguished claims on His Majesty, and suggests me as a husband for mademoiselle. That is all. I think it will be effectual. But now, monsieur, you have not answered my little question about your cousin Angelot. He is in love with your sister, n'est-ce pas?"

"As you put it so, monsieur, I think it is not unlikely," said Georges. "But what does that signify? Every one knows it is an impossibility, even himself, ambitious fool as he may be."

"And the young lady?" said Ratoneau, his face darkening.

"My mother answers for her," Georges answered coldly, and bowed himself out.

He had information enough to carry back to his mother.

He was not too comfortable in his mind, having ideas of honour, at the unscrupulous doings by which Helene's future husband was protecting his own interests and bringing his marriage about. He rather wished, though he worshipped power, that this powerful General had been a different sort of man.

"Still he may make her a good husband," he thought. "He is jealous already."

He rode across the square, gay and stately in his Chasseur uniform, and dismounted at the Prefecture to leave his card and to enquire for Monsieur de Mauves.

Ratoneau watched him from the window with a dissatisfied frown, then rang sharply for Simon.

"That young fellow would turn against me on small provocation," he said. "Now—as to the seal for these papers—you can procure that, I suppose?"

"Leave that to me, monsieur."

"Another thing: this means further delay, and I am not sure that you were entirely wrong about young La Mariniere. Listen. He would be better out of the way until this affair is settled. He has been met in company with known Chouans. A word to the wise, Simon. Devise something, or go to the devil, for I've done with you."

"But there is nothing easier, monsieur! Nothing in the world!" Simon cried joyfully.



CHAPTER XIX

THE TREADING OF THE GRAPES

The weather for the vintage was splendid. A slight frost in the morning curled and yellowed the vine-leaves, giving, as it does in these provinces, the last touch of ripeness to the grapes, so that they begin to burst their thin skins and to drop from the bunches. This is the perfect moment. Crickets sing; the land is alive with springing grasshoppers; harmless snakes rustle through the grass and bask in the warm sand. The sun shines through an air so light, so crystal clear, that men and beasts hardly know fatigue, though they work under his beams all day long. The evening closes early with hovering mists in the low places, the sudden chill of a country still wild and half-cultivated. This was the moment, in an older France, chosen for the Seigneur's vintage; the peasants had to deal with their own little vineyards either earlier or later, and thus their wine was never so good as his.

The laws of the vintage were old; they were handed down through centuries, from the days of the Romans, but the Revolution swept them and their obligations away. Napoleon's code knew nothing of them. Yet private individuals, when they were clever men like Urbain de la Mariniere, were sure by hook or by crook to arrange the vintage at the time that suited their private arrangements. The ancient connection, once of lord and vassal, now of landlord and tenant, between La Mariniere and La Joubardiere, had been hardly at all disturbed by the Revolution. Joubard was not the man to turn against the old friends of his family. Besides, he believed in the waning moon. So when Monsieur Urbain hit on the precise moment for his own vintage, and summoned him and his people, as well as Monsieur Joseph's people, to help at La Mariniere and to let their own vineyards wait a week or two, he made no grievance of it.

"The weather will last," he said, when Martin grumbled, "and the moon will be better. Besides, those slopes are always forwarder than ours. And we shall lose nothing by helping the master. But if we did, I would rather spoil my own wine than disappoint Monsieur Angelot."

"You and the mother are in love with his pretty face," growled the soldier. "Why doesn't he go to the war, and fight for his country, and come home a fine man like his cousin? Ah, you think there are different ways of coming home, do you? Well, if you ask me, I am prouder of my lost limbs than the young captain is of his rank and his uniform."

"And Monsieur Angelot honours you, poor Martin, more than he does his smart cousin," said Joubard. "Allons! Our vintage will not suffer, now that you are at home to see to it. And they will not take you away again, my son!"

So, in those first days of October, the vintage was in full swing at La Mariniere. All the peasants came to help, men and women, old and young. Dark, grave faces that matched oddly with a babel of voices and gay laughter; broad straw hats as sunburnt as their owners, white caps, blue shoulders, bobbing among the long rows of bronzed vines loaded with fruit. The vintagers cut off the bunches with sharp knives and dropped them into wooden pails; these were emptied into great hottes on men's backs, and carried to the carts, full of barrels, waiting in the lane. Slowly the patient white horses tramped down to the yard of La Mariniere. There, in its own whitewashed building with the wide-arched door, the stone wine-press was ready; the grapes were thrown in in heaps, the barefooted men, splashed red to their waists, trod and crushed with a swishing sound; the red juice ran down in a stream, foaming into the vault beneath, into the vats where it was to ferment and become wine.

Angelot worked in the vineyard like anybody else, sometimes cutting grapes, sometimes leading the carts up and down, and feeding the horses with bunches of grapes, which they munched contentedly. So did the dogs who waited on the vintagers, not daring to venture in among the vines, but sitting outside with eager eyes and wagging tails till their portion of fruit was thrown to them. And the workers themselves, and the little bullet-headed boys and white-capped girls who played about the vineyard, all ate grapes to their satisfaction; for the crop was splendid, and there was no need to stint anybody.

A festal spirit reigned over all. Though most of these people were good Christians, ready to thank God for His gifts without any intention of misusing them, there was something of the old pagan feeling about. Purely a country feeling, a natural religion much older than Christianity, as Urbain remarked to the old Cure, who agreed with Madame Urbain in not quite caring for this way of looking at it. But he was accustomed to such views from Urbain, who never, for instance, let the Rogation processions pass singing through the fields without pointing out their descent from something ancient, pagan, devilish.

"But if you have cast out the devil, dear Cure, what does it matter?" said Urbain. "The beauty alone is left. And all true beauty is good by nature; and what is not beautiful is not good. You want nothing more, it seems to me."

"Ah, your philosophies!" sighed the old man.

However, in different ways, the vintage attracted everybody. Monsieur Joseph and Henriette were there, very busy among the vines; these people would help them another day. A party strolled across from Lancilly; Monsieur and Madame de Sainfoy, idly admiring the pretty scene; Captain Georges, casting superior glances, Sophie and Lucie hanging on their splendid brother's looks and words. They were allowed to walk with him, and were very happy, Mademoiselle Moineau having been left behind in charge of Helene. The La Mariniere vineyards were not considered safe ground for that young culprit. She had to be contented with a distant view, and could see from her window the white horses crawling up and down the steep hill.

Some patronising notice was bestowed by the people from the chateau on Martin Joubard, who moved slowly about among the old neighbours, a hero to them all, whatever their political opinions might be. For, after all, he went to the wars against his will; and when there he had done his duty; and his enthusiasm for the Emperor was a new spirit in that country, which roused curiosity, if nothing more. No one could fail to rejoice with old Joubard and his wife. Whatever they themselves thought, and hardly dared to say, was said for them by their neighbours. Few indeed had come back, of the conscript lads of Anjou. How much better, people said, to have Martin maimed than not at all. What was a wooden leg? a very useful appendage, on which Martin might limp actively about the farms; and the loss of an arm did not matter so much, for, by his father's account, he could do everything but hold and fire a gun with the one left to him. His mother had dressed him in clean country clothes, laying aside his tattered old uniform in a chest, for he would not have it destroyed. All the girls in the two villages were running after Martin, who had always been popular; all the men wanted to hear his tales of the war. He was certainly the hero of Monsieur Urbain's vintage, the centre figure of that sunny day.

Angelot felt himself drawn to the soldier, whose return home had touched him with so strange a thrill. There was a spark of the heroic in this young fellow. Angelot found himself watching him, listening to him, perhaps as a kind of refuge from the cold looks of his relations; for even Riette dared not run after him as of old.

When purple shadows began to lie long in the yellow evening glow, and the crickets sang louder than ever, and sweet scents came out of the warm ground—when the day's work was nearly done, Angelot walked away with Martin from the vineyard. He wanted some of those stirring stories to himself, it seemed. If one must go away and fight, if the old Angevin life became once for all impossible, then might it not be better under the eagles, as his wise father thought, than with that army and on that side for which, in spite of his mother and his uncle, he could not rouse in himself any enthusiasm? True, he liked little he knew of the Empire and its men, except this poor lamed conscript; but always in his whirling thoughts there was that will-o'-the-wisp, that wavering star of hope that Helene's father had seemed to offer him. Could he forsake, for any other reason, the sight of the forbidden walls that held her!

He and Martin went away up the lane together, and climbed along the side of the moor towards La Joubardiere, Martin telling wild stories of battles and sieges, of long marching and privation, Angelot listening fascinated, as he helped the crippled soldier over the rough ground.

Martin had been wounded under Suchet at the siege of Tortosa, so that he had seen little of the more recent events of the war, but his personal adventures, before and since, had been exciting; and not the least wonderful part of the story was his wandering life, a wounded beggar on his way back across the Pyrenees into his own country. As Angelot listened, the politics of French parties faded away, and he only realised that this was a Frenchman, fighting the enemies of France and giving his young life for her without a word of regret. Napoleon might have conquered the world, it seemed, with such conscript soldiers as this. These, not men like Ratoneau or Georges de Sainfoy, were the heroes of the war.

The sun had set, and swift darkness was coming down, before the young men reached La Joubardiere. The lane, the same in which the two carriages had met, ran in a hollow between high banks studded with oaks like gigantic toadstools, adding to the deepness of the shadow.

"There are people following us," said Angelot.

He interrupted Martin in the midst of one of his stories; the soldier was standing still, leaning on his stick, and laughed with a touch of annoyance, for he was growing vain of his skill as a story-teller.

"My father and mother," he said. "And here I am forgetting their soup, which I promised to have ready."

"It is not—I know Maitre Joubard's step," said Angelot.

"Some of the vintagers—" Martin was beginning, when he and Angelot were surrounded suddenly in the dusk by several men, two of whom seized Angelot by the shoulders.

"I arrest you, in the Emperor's name," said a third man.

Angelot struggled to free himself, and Martin lifted his stick threateningly.

"What is this, rascals? Do you know what you are saying? This is the son of Monsieur de la Mariniere."

"It is some mistake. You have no business to arrest me. You will answer for this, police! You will answer it to Monsieur le Prefet. He is ill, and cannot have given the order. Show me your authority."

"Never mind our authority," said the chief. "We don't want Monsieur de la Mariniere, but we do want his son. Are you coming quietly, young gentleman, or must we put on handcuffs? Get out of the way with your stick, you one-legged fellow, or I shall have to punish you."

"Keep back, Martin; you can do nothing. Go and tell my father," said Angelot. He shook off the men's hands, and stood still and upright in the midst of them.

"Why do you arrest me?" he said. "Where are you going to take me?"

"Ah, that you will see," said the police officer.

The snarling malice in his voice seemed suddenly familiar to Angelot.

"Why, I know you—you are—"

"Never mind who I am. It is my business to keep down Chouans."

"But I am not a Chouan!"

"A man is known by his company. Now then—quick march—away!"

"Adieu, Martin! This is all nonsense—I shall soon come back," Angelot cried, as they hustled him on.

A few moments, and the very tramp of their feet was lost in the dusk, for they had dragged their prisoner out of the lane and were crossing the open moor. Martin, in much tribulation, made the best of his way back to meet his father and mother, and with them carried the news to La Mariniere.

Half an hour later, Monsieur Urbain, whistling gaily, came back from a pleasant stroll home with his Sainfoy cousins. Everything seemed satisfactory; Adelaide had been kind, the vintage was splendid. If only Angelot were a sensible boy, there would be nothing left to wish for.

The moon was up, flooding the old yards that were now empty and still. As he came near, he saw Anne waiting for him in the porch, and supposed that the moonlight made her so strangely pale.

"My dearest," he said, as he came up, "there is to be a ball this month at Lancilly, in honour of Georges. But I do not know whether that foolish son of yours will be invited."

Anne looked him in the face; no, it was not the moonlight that made her so pale.

"They have arrested Ange as a Chouan," she said.



CHAPTER XX

HOW ANGELOT CLIMBED A TREE

The police had caught Angelot; but they did not keep him long.

They had to do with a young man who knew every yard of that wild country far better than they did, and was almost as much a part of it as the birds and beasts that haunted it.

"Where are you taking me?" he said, as they walked across the high expanse of the landes, dimly lighted by the last glimmer of day. "This is a very roundabout way to Sonnay-le-Loir."

"It is not the way at all," said the officer who took the lead, "and we know that as well as you."

"But I demand to be taken to Sonnay," Angelot said, and stopped. "The warrant for my arrest, if you have such a thing, must be from the Prefect. Take me to him, and I will soon convince him that there is some mistake."

"Monsieur le Prefet is ill, as you know. Walk on, if you please."

"Then take me to the sous-Prefet, or whoever is in his place."

"You are going to a higher authority, monsieur, not a lower one."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You are going to Paris. Monsieur le Comte Real, the head of our branch of the police, will decide what is to be done with you."

"Mon Dieu! The old Jacobin! He nearly had my uncle in his fangs once," said Angelot, half to himself. "But what do they accuse me of? Chouannerie? But I am not a Chouan, and you know enough of our affairs to know that, Monsieur Simon!"

The Chouan-catcher laughed sourly.

"I believe this is some private devilry," the prisoner went on, with careless daring. "The Prefect has nothing to do with it. It is spite against my uncle—but you are a little afraid of touching him. Don't imagine, though, that you will annoy him particularly by carrying me off. We are not on good terms just now, my uncle and I. In truth, I have offended all my relations, and nobody will be sorry to have me away for a time."

"Tant mieux, monsieur!" said Simon. "Then you won't object to giving the Minister of Police a little information about your uncle and the other Chouan gentlemen, his friends."

"Ah! that is quite another story! That is the idea, is it? Monsieur le Duc de Rovigo, and Monsieur le Comte Real, flatter themselves that they have got hold of a traitor?"

"Pardon, monsieur! It is the Chouans who are traitors."

"I think I could find a few others in our poor France this very night. But I am not one of them. Again, whose authority have you for arresting me? Is it Monsieur Real who has stretched his long arm so far?"

"The authority is sufficient, and you are my prisoner," Simon answered coolly.

"I suspect you have no authority but your own!"

"They will enlighten you in Paris, possibly."

"Come, tell me, how much are they paying you for this little trick?"

One of the other men laughed suddenly, and Simon became angry.

"Hold your tongue, prisoner, or I shall have you gagged. You need not speak again till the authorities in Paris take means to make you. Yes, I assure you, they can persuade rather strongly when they like. Now, quick march—we have a post-chaise waiting in the road over there."

Angelot saw that his wisest course was to say no more. He was unarmed; they had taken away the knife he had used for cutting grapes; his faithful fowling-piece was hanging in the hall at La Mariniere. He was guarded by five men, all armed, all taller and bigger than himself. He walked along in silence, apparently resigned to his fate, but thinking hard all the while.

His thoughts, busy and curious as they were, did not hit on the right origin of his very disagreeable adventure. Knowing a good deal of Simon by repute, and a little by experience, and having heard legends of such police exploits in the West within the last ten years, though not since Monsieur de Mauves took office, he felt almost sure that the spy was taking advantage of the Prefect's illness to gain a little money and credit on his own account. And of course his own arrest, a young and unimportant man, was more easily managed and less likely to have consequences than that of his uncle, for instance, or Monsieur des Barres. He did not believe that the Paris authorities knew anything of it, yet; but he did believe that Simon knew what he was doing; that Real, the well-known head of the police in the western arrondissement, trained under Fouche in suspicion, cunning and mercilessness, would make unscrupulous use of any means of knowing the present state of Royalist opinion in Anjou. He would be all the more severe, probably, because the mildness of the Prefect of the Loir had more than once irritated him. So Angelot thought he saw that Simon might easily drag his chosen victim into a dangerous place, from which it would be hard to escape with honour.

They reached the north-east edge of the moor just as the moon was rising. At first the low light made all things strangely confused, marching armies of shadows over the wild ground. Every bush might hide a man, and the ranks of low oaks stood like giants guarding the hollow black paths that wound between them. Les Chouettes, the only habitation near, lay a mile away below the vineyards. The high-road to Paris might be reached by one of the narrow roads that crossed the heath not far away.

When they came to the edge of the open ground, near a grove of oaks plunged in bracken, with a few crumbling walls beyond it where a farm had once stood, Simon halted his party and whistled. He seemed to expect a reply, but got none. After waiting a few minutes, whistling again, exclaiming impatiently, he beckoned one of the other men and they walked away together towards the road.

"Something wrong with the chaise?" said Angelot to the three who were left. "What will you do if it is not there? You will have to carry me to Paris, for I promise you I don't mean to walk."

"Monsieur will not be very heavy," one of the men answered, good-humouredly; the same who had laughed before.

"Lift me then, and see!" said Angelot. "All right, my good fellow, I'll ride on your shoulders. Voyons! you can carry me down the road."

They were standing in a patch of moonlight, just outside the shadow of the oaks. The two other men stepped back for an instant, while their comrade stooped, laughing, to lift Angelot. He was met by a lightning-like blow worthy of an English training, and tumbled over into the bracken. One of the two others fell flat in the opposite direction, and the prisoner vanished into the shadows of the grove. The third man dashed after him, but came into violent contact, in the darkness, with the trunk of a tree, and fell down stunned at the foot of it.

By this time the chaise had slowly climbed the hill from a village in the further valley, where the post-boy had been refreshing himself and his horses. Simon stopped to scold him, then left his companion to keep guard over him, and himself mounted again the precipitous bit of stony lane which had once been the approach to the farm, and now opened on the wild moor. He whistled shrilly as he came, and then called in a subdued voice: "All right, men! Bring him down."

There was no answer. He quickened his pace, and coming up under the oaks found the two fellows sitting on the ground rubbing their heads, staring vacantly round with eyes before which all the moonshiny world was swimming.

Simon swore at them furiously. "What has happened, you fools? Where's Alexandre? Where is the prisoner? name of all that's—"

"Devil knows, I don't," said the fellow who had paid dear for his good-humour. "That little gentleman is cleverer than you or me, Master Simon, and stronger too. He knocked us down like ninepins. Where is he? Nearly back at La Mariniere, I should think, and with Alexandre chasing after him!"

"Not so far off as that, I suspect," said Simon. "Up with you. He is hidden in this cover, and you have got to beat it till you find him. How did you come to let him escape, pair of idiots? You are not fit for your work."

He went back a few yards, while the men scrambled to their feet, and whistled sharply for the one he had left in charge of the post-boy. Then he lighted a lantern, and they pushed at various points into the wood. The first discovery was that of Alexandre, lying senseless; they dragged him into the road and left him there to come to himself. Then they unearthed a wild boar, which rushed out furiously from the depths of the bracken and charged at the light, then bolted off across the moor. Smaller animals fled from them in all directions; large birds rustled and cried, disturbed in the thick foliage of the oaks, impenetrable masses of shade.

"If we were to shoot into the trees? He may be hidden in one of them."

The suggestion came from Angelot's friend, whose frivolity had given him his chance, and whose anxiety to put himself on the right side by catching him again, dead or alive, very nearly brought his young life to a speedy end. For foolish Francois was wise this time, so wise, had he only known it, that Angelot was sitting in the very tree he touched with his hand as he spoke, a couple of yards above his head.

The boy had courage enough and to spare; but his heart seemed to stop at that moment, and he felt himself turning white in the darkness. The men could hardly shoot into the trees without hitting him, though he had slipped down as far as he could into the hollow trunk. He would be horribly wounded, if not killed. It was a hard fate, to be shot as a poacher might shoot a pheasant roosting on a bough. An unsportsmanlike sort of death, Uncle Joseph would say. He held his breath. Should he await it, or give himself back to the police by jumping down amongst them?

The moment of danger passed. Angelot smiled as the men moved on, and hid himself a little more completely.

"No," Simon said. "No shooting till you are obliged. His uncle lives only a mile off, and he will come out if he hears a gun."

"So he would, the blessed little man!" muttered Angelot.

The men went on searching the wood, but with such stealthy movements, so little noise, even so little perseverance, as it seemed to him, that he was confirmed in his idea of Simon's sole responsibility. These men were police, supposed to be all-powerful; but somehow they did not act or talk as if Savary and the Emperor, or even Real, were behind them.

Angelot watched the light as it glimmered here and there, and listened to the rustling in the bracken. Presently, when they were far off on the other side of the little grove, he climbed out of the trunk and slipped down from his tree. Simon might change his mind about shooting; in any case it seemed safer to change one's position. Being close to the edge of the landes, Angelot's first thought was to take to his heels and run; then again that seemed risky, and a shot in the back was undesirable. He dived in among the bracken, which was taller than himself, and grew thick on the ground like a small forest. Half crawling, half walking, stopping dead still to watch the wandering gleams of light and to hear the steps and voices of the men, then pushing gently on again, Angelot reached a hiding-place on the other side of the grove. Here the bracken, taller and thicker than ever, grew against and partly over the ruined walls of the old farm. In the very middle of it, where the wall made a sudden turn, there was a hollow, half sheltered by stones, and a black yawning hole below, the old well of the homestead. All the top of it was in ruins; a fox had made its hole halfway down; there was still water at the bottom of the well. Here, plunged in the darkness, Angelot sat on the edge of the well and waited. There were odd little sounds about him, the squeaking of young animals, the sleepy chirp of easily disturbed birds; a frog dived with a splash into the well, and then in a few unearthly croaks told his story to his mates down there. The bracken smelt warm and dry; it was not a bad place to spend a summer night in, for any one who knew wild nature and loved it.

All was so still that Angelot, after listening intently for a time, leaned his head against the white stones, fell asleep, and dreamed of Helene. If he had carried her off that night, mad fellow as he was, some such shelter might have been all he had to offer her.

He woke with a start, and saw by the light that he must have been asleep at least two hours, for the moon was high in the sky. He got up cautiously, and crept through the bracken to the edge of the grove towards Les Chouettes.

It was fortunate that he took the precaution to move noiselessly, as if he were stalking game, for he had hardly reached the edge of the wood when he saw Simon standing in the moonlight. Evidently he had been sitting or lying on the bank and had just risen to his feet, for one of his comrades lay there still.

"He is hidden here. He must be here," said Simon, in a low, decided voice. "I will not go away without him. Hungry and thirsty—yes, I dare say you are. You deserve it, for letting him escape."

"I tell you, he is not here," said the other man. "We have been all round this bit of country; all through it. And look at the moonlight. A mouse couldn't get away without our seeing it. What's that? a rabbit?"

"I shall walk round again," said Simon. "Those other fellows may be asleep, if they are as drowsy and discontented as you. Look sharp now, while I am away."

Simon tramped down the lane. The other police officer stretched himself and stared after him.

"I'll eat my cap," he muttered, "if the young gentleman's in the wood still. He deserves to be caught, if he is."

At that moment Angelot was standing under an oak two yards away. In the broad, deep shadow he was invisible. A longing seized him to knock the man's cap off his head and tell him to keep his word and eat it. But Simon was too near, and it was madness to risk the chase that must follow. Angelot laughed to himself as he slipped from that shadow to the next, the officer yawning desperately the while.

There was something unearthly about Les Chouettes in the moonlight. It seemed to float like a fairy dwelling, with its slim tower and high windows, on a snowy ocean of sand. The woods, dark guarding phalanxes of tall oaks and firs, seemed marshalled on the slopes for its defence. Angelot came down upon it by the old steep lane, having slipped across from the ruined farm to a vineyard, along by a tall hedge into another wood of low scrub and bracken, then into the road a hundred yards above the house. Before he reached it he heard the horses kicking in the stable, then a low bark from the nearest dog which he answered by softly whistling a familiar tune.

In consequence of this all the dogs about the place came running to meet him, softly patting over the sand, and it was on this group, standing under her window in the midnight stillness, that Riette looked out a few minutes later.

Something woke her, she did not know what, but this little watcher's sleep was always of the lightest, and she had not long fallen asleep, her eyelashes still wet with tears for Angelot. The window creaked as she opened it, leaning out into the moonlight.

"Is it you, my Ange? But they said—"

"I have escaped," said Angelot. "Quick, let me in! They may be following me."

"But go round to papa's window, dearest! And what business have the dogs there? Ah—do you hear, you wicked things? Go back to your places."

The dogs looked up, dropped their ears and tails, slunk away each to his corner. Only the dog who guarded Riette's end of the house remained; he stretched himself on the sand, slapped it with his tail, lolled out his tongue as if laughing.

"Don't you think my uncle will shoot me before he looks at me, if I attack his window?" said Angelot. "And in any case, I dare hardly ask him to take me in. He has not forgiven me. But you could hide me, Riette! or at least you could give me something to eat before I take to the woods again."

"My boy!" the odd little figure in the flannel gown leaned farther out, and the dark cropped head was turned one way and the other, listening. "Go round into the north wood and wait as near papa's window as you can. I will go down to him. I think he cannot be asleep; he must be thinking of you."

"Merci!" said Angelot, and walked away.

But he did not go into the wood. He stole round very gently to where, in spite of the moon, he saw a light shining in Monsieur Joseph's uncurtained window. The guardian dog rubbed himself against his legs as he stood there.

Monsieur Joseph's room was panelled and furnished with the plainest wood. His bed was in the alcove at the back; the only ornament was the portrait of his wife, a dark, Italian-looking woman, which hung surrounded by guns, pistols, and swords, over the low stone mantelpiece. It was just midnight, but Monsieur Joseph was not in bed. He looked a quaint figure, in a dressing-gown and a tasselled night-cap, and he sat at the table writing a long letter. He started when Riette touched the door, and Angelot saw that his hand moved mechanically towards a pair of pistols that lay beside him. Monsieur Joseph did not trust entirely to his dogs for defence.

In she came, with bare white feet stepping lightly over the polished floor. Angelot moved back a pace or two that he might not hear what they said to each other. When Monsieur Joseph hastily opened the window, Riette had been sent back summarily to her room, and Angelot was waiting halfway to the wood.

"Come in, Ange! why do you stand there?" the little uncle exclaimed under his breath. "Sapristi, how do you know that you are not watched?"

"I think not, Uncle Joseph. And I fancy the fellows who caught me will hardly follow me here," said Angelot, stepping into the room. "You will forgive me for coming?"

"Where could you go? Come, come, tell me everything. Why—what did those devils of police want with you? Shut the window and draw the curtain—there, now we are safe. I was just writing to Cesar d'Ombre. Do you know—here is a secret—he means to get away to England, and from there to the Princes. He is right; there is not much to be done here. You shall go with him!"

"Shall I?" said Angelot, vaguely. "Well, Uncle Joseph—it does not much matter where I go."

Joseph de la Mariniere swore his biggest oath.

"What are you staying here for?" he said. "To be caught on one side by a young lady, on the other by the police!"

"Give me something to eat, Uncle Joseph, or I shall die of hunger between you all," said Angelot, smiling at him.

The little gentleman shook his head. Angelot was not forgiven, not at all; even Riette had hardly been restored to favour, to ordinary meals in polite society.

"I will give you something to eat if I can find anything without calling Gigot," he said. "Riette thinks there is a pie in the pantry. Come into the gun-room; the light will not be seen there. And tell me what you have done to get yourself arrested, troublesome fellow! Not even a real honest bit of Chouannerie, I am afraid."



CHAPTER XXI

HOW MONSIEUR JOSEPH FOUND HIMSELF MASTER OF THE SITUATION

In the old labyrinth of rooms at Les Chouettes, Monsieur Joseph's gun-room was the best hidden from the outside. It had solid shutters, always kept closed and barred; the daylight only made its way in through their chinks, or through the doors, one of which opened into Monsieur Joseph's bedroom, the other into a little anteroom between that and the hall. Both doors were generally locked, and the keys safely stowed away.

The gun-room was not meant for ordinary visitors; Angelot himself, as a rule, was the only person admitted there. For the amount of arms and ammunition kept there, some of it in cupboards cleverly hidden in the panelling, some in a dry cellar entered by a trap-door in the floor, was very different, both in kind and quality, from anything the most energetic sportsman could require.

In this storehouse the amiable conspirator shut up his nephew, and Angelot spent the next few days there, well employed in cleaning and polishing wood and steel. He slept at night on a sofa in the anteroom, but was allowed to go no farther. Monsieur Joseph had reasons of his own.

He was a very authoritative person, when once he took a matter into his own hands, and his influence with Angelot was great. He took a far more serious view of the arrest than Angelot himself did. He was sure that his nephew had been kidnapped by special orders from Paris—probably from Real, whom he knew of old—in order to gain information as to any existing Chouan plots in Anjou. Thus the authorities meant to protect themselves from any consequences of the Prefect's indulgent character. It was even possible that some suspicion of the mission to England, only lately discussed by himself and his friends, might have filtered through to Paris; and in that case several persons were in serious danger.

Monsieur Joseph was confirmed in these ideas by the fact that his brother started off to Sonnay to demand of the authorities there the reason of his son's arrest, and found that absolutely nothing was known of it. Coming back in a state of rage and anxiety, which quite drove his philosophy out of the field, Urbain attacked his brother in words that Joseph found a little hard to bear, accusing him of having ruined Angelot's life with his foolish fancies, and of being the actual cause of this catastrophe which might bring the fate of a Chouan on the innocent fellow who cared for no politics at all.

"And what a life, to care for no cause at all!" cried Joseph, with eloquently waving hands. "But—you say you are going to Paris, to get to the bottom of this? Well, my friend, go! And I promise you, if Ange is in danger, I will follow and take his place. You and Anne may rely upon it, he shall not be punished for my sins."

"Come with me now, then! I start this very night," said Urbain.

"No, no! I will not accuse myself before it is necessary," said Joseph, shaking his head and smiling.

Urbain flung away in angry disgust. Joseph had a moment of profound sadness as he looked after him—they were standing in the courtyard of La Mariniere—then stole away home through the lanes, carefully avoiding a sight of his sister-in-law.

"I let him go! I let him go, poor Urbain! and his boy safe at Les Chouettes all the time. Why do I do it? because the house is watched day and night; because neither I, nor Gigot, nor Tobie, can go into the woods without seeing the glitter of a police carbine through the leaves; because the dogs growl at night, and there is no safe place for Angelot outside Les Chouettes, till he is out of France altogether—and that I shall have to manage carefully. Because, if his father knew he had escaped from the police, all the world would know. Et puis,—I shall make a good Royalist of you in the end, my little Angelot. Your mother will not blame me for cutting you off from the Empire, and your father must comfort himself with his philosophy. And that hopeless passion for Mademoiselle Helene—what can be kinder than to end it—and by the great cure of all—time, absence, impossibility! Yes; the matter is in my hands, and I shall carry it through, God helping me."

It was not a light burden that he had to carry, the little uncle. Never, since his brother's intervention brought him back to France and placed him where he and his old friends could amuse themselves with conspiracies which, as Joubard said, did little harm to any one, had he been in a position of such real difficulty. Riette did not at all realise what she was bringing upon her father, when she slipped into his room that night with the news that Angelot had escaped from the police. He had to keep his nephew quietly imprisoned till he could get him away safely; it required all his arguments, all his influence and strength of will, to do that; for Angelot was not an easy person to keep within four narrow walls, and only love and gratitude restrained him from obeying his own instincts, going out into the woods, risking a second arrest—hardly to be followed by a second escape—venturing over to La Mariniere to see his mother. It distressed him far more to think of her, terribly anxious, ignorant of his safety, than of his father on the way to Paris. He, at any rate, though he would not find him, might come to the bottom of the mysterious business.

Monsieur Joseph danced in the air, shrugged his shoulders, waved his hands. If Angelot chose to go, let him! His recapture would probably mean the arrest and ruin of the whole family. A little patience, and he could disappear for the time. What else did he expect to be able to do? Would a man on whom the police had once laid their hands be allowed to rescue himself and to live peaceably in his own country? What did he take them for, the police? were they children at play? or were their proceedings grim and real earnest? Had those men behind, who pulled the strings of the puppet-show, no other object in view than an hour's amusement? Did Angelot know that the woods were patrolled by the police, the roads watched? The only surprising thing was, that no domiciliary visit had yet been made, either at Les Chouettes or La Mariniere.

"However, they know I am a good marksman," said Monsieur Joseph, with his sweetest smile. "And even Tobie, with my authority, might think a gendarme fair game."

"I don't believe it is fear of you that keeps them away, Uncle Joseph," said Angelot. "As to that, I too can hit a tree by daylight. But these stealthy ways of theirs seem to tell me what I have thought all along, that it is a private enterprise of our friend Simon's own, without any authority whatever. The fellows with him were not gendarmes; they were not in uniform. Monsieur le Prefet being laid up, the good man thinks it the moment to do a little hunting on his own account with his own dogs, and to curry favour by taking his game to Paris. But he is not quite sure of himself; he has no warrant to search houses without a better reason than any he can give. He will catch me again if he can, no doubt; but as you say, Uncle Joseph, as long as I stay here in your cupboard, I am safe."

"So safe," laughed his uncle, "that I am going to begin my vintage to-morrow under their very noses, leaving Riette and the dogs to guard you, mon petit. But you are wrong, you are quite wrong. No police spy would dare to make such an arrest without a special order. If they have no warrant for searching, they will soon get one as soon as they are sure you are here. But at present you have vanished into the bowels of the earth. They can see that your father knows nothing of you; they have no reason to think that I am any wiser."

So passed those weary days, those long, mysterious nights at Les Chouettes.

Outside, with great care to keep themselves out of sight, Simon's scratch band searched the woods and lanes. Simon was mystified, as well as furious. He hardly dared return and report to his employer, who supposed that Angelot had been conveyed safely off to the mock prison where he meant to have him kept for a few weeks; then, when the affair of the marriage was arranged, to let him escape from it. Simon was himself too well known in the neighbourhood to make any enquiries; but one of his men found out at Lancilly that the family supposed young Ange to have been carried off to Paris, whither his father had followed him. Martin Joubard, the only witness of the arrest, had made the most of his story. He did not know the police officer by sight, but Monsieur Ange had seemed to do so. This had made them all think that the order for the arrest had come from Sonnay. But no! And as to any escape, this man was assured that the young gentleman had not been seen by any one but Martin Joubard, since he left his father's vineyard in the twilight of that fatal evening.

At Les Chouettes all went on outwardly in its usual fashion. Monsieur Joseph strolled out with his gun, directed the beginnings of his vintage; his servants, trustworthy indeed, showed no sign of any special watchfulness; Mademoiselle Henriette ordered the dogs about and sang her songs as usual. If Monsieur Joseph was grave and preoccupied, no wonder; every one knew he loved his nephew. But Simon, in truth, had met his match. He was almost convinced that no fugitive from justice, real or pretended, was hidden in or about Monsieur Joseph's habitation; and he gradually made his cordon wider, still watching the house, but keeping his men in cover by day, and searching the woods by night with less exact caution. His only satisfaction was being aware of two visits paid to Les Chouettes by the Baron d'Ombre, who came over the moor in the evening and slept there. The mission to England was as yet beyond police dreams, at least on this side of the country; but Simon kept his knowledge for future use.

It might naturally be imagined that Angelot would have found a refuge in some of the wild old precincts of La Mariniere; but Simon soon convinced himself that this was not the case. No mother whose son was hidden about her home would have spent her time as Anne did, wandering restlessly about, expecting nothing but her husband's return, or spending long hours before the altar in the church, praying for her son's safety. Simon began to suspect that his prisoner had got away to the west, into Brittany, among the Chouans who were there so numerous that it was better to leave them alone.

"Bien! his absence in any way will suit Monsieur le General," Simon reflected. "As to that, it does not much matter. But I and my fellows will not get our promised pay, and that signifies a great deal. I, who have given up my furlough to serve that animal!"

So he gnawed his nails in distraction, and still watched with a sort of fascination the little square of country where he felt more and more afraid that Master Angelot was no longer to be found.

The sympathy that Anne de la Mariniere, in her lonely sorrow, might have expected from the cousins at Lancilly who owed Urbain so much, she neither asked nor found. Once or twice, Herve de Sainfoy came himself to the manor to ask if she had any news; but his manner was a little stiff and awkward; and Adelaide never came; and the messages he brought from her were too evidently made by his politeness on the spur of the moment. Was it not possible, Anne thought, to be too worldly, too unforgiving? Had not her beautiful boy been punished enough for his presumption in falling in love with their daughter, and behaving like a lover of the olden time? They were even partly responsible for the arrest, she thought, for it was to escape them that Ange had walked away with Martin up the hill that evening.

Looking over at the great castle on the opposite hill, she accused it bitterly of having robbed her not only of Urbain, but of Angelot.

The October days brought wilder autumn weather; the winds began to blow in the woods, to howl at night in the wide old chimneys of La Mariniere; sometimes the cry of a wolf, in distant depths of forest, made sportsmen and farmers talk of the hunts of which Lancilly used long ago to be the centre. Those days would return again, they hoped, though Count Herve had not the energy or the country training of his ancestors. But his son, when the war was over, seemed likely to vie with any seigneur of them all. In the meanwhile, this young man's leave was shortened by an express from the army—a fact which seemed at first unlikely to have any influence on the fate of his cousin Angelot—but life has turns and twists that baffle the wisest calculations. Neither Georges nor his mother had been displeased at the arrest of Angelot; though they had the decency to keep their congratulations for each other. As for Helene, the news had been allowed to reach her through the servants and Mademoiselle Moineau. She dared not cry any more; her mother had scolded her enough for spoiling her eyes and complexion. Pale and silent, she took this new trouble as one more proof that she was never meant to be happy. Her fairy prince was a dream; yet, whatever the poets may say, she found a little joy and comfort, warmth and peace, in dreaming her dream again, and even in this worst time, by some strange instinct of love, Angelot seemed never far away from her.

One evening, when it was blowing and raining outside, a wood fire was flaming in the salon at La Mariniere. For herself, Anne would not have cared for it; but the old Cure sat and warmed his hands after dining with her and playing a game of tric-trac. Not indeed to please and distract her, but himself; for he had long been accustomed to depend on her for comfort in all his troubles. After the game was over he had told her a piece of news; nothing that mattered very much, or that was very surprising, characters and circumstances considered; but Anne took it hardly.

"I cannot believe it," she said at first. "Who told you, do you say?"

"My brother at Lancilly told me," said the Cure. "You do not think him worthy of much confidence, madame—and it may not be true—he had heard the report in the village."

She shrugged her shoulders, with a little contempt for the Cure of Lancilly. Her old friend watched her face, pathetically changed since all this new sorrow came upon her; thinner, paler, its delicate beauty hardened, purple shadows under the still lovely eyes, and a look of bitter resentment that hurt him to see. He gazed at her imploringly.

"But, madame," he murmured—"it is nothing—Monsieur de la Mariniere would say it was nothing—"

"I hope, Monsieur le Cure," Anne said, "that after such cruel hardness of heart he will waste his affection there no longer. Ah! who is that?"

There were quick steps outside. Somebody had come in, and might be heard shaking himself in the hall; then Monsieur Joseph walked lightly into the room, bringing a rush of outside air, a smell of wet leaves, and that atmosphere of life which in his saddest moments never left him.

Madame Urbain received him a little coldly; she was cold to every one in these days; but in truth his conscience told him that he might have visited her more since Urbain went away. But then—how keep the secret from Angelot's mother? No, impossible; and so he made his vintage an excuse for avoiding La Mariniere. To-night, however, he had a mission to fulfil.

It was horribly difficult. He sat down between her and the Cure, looked from one to the other, drank the coffee she offered him, and blushed like a girl as he said, "No news from Urbain, I suppose?"

Anne's brows rose in a scornful arch; her lips pouted.

"News! How should there be any?" she said, as if Urbain had gone to Paris to amuse himself. "And your vintage, Joseph?"

"I finished it to-day. It was difficult—the weather was not very good—and—I have had distractions," said Monsieur Joseph, and waved away the subject. "My dear Anne," he went on, rushing headlong into another, "I have had a visitor to-day, who charged me to explain to you a certain matter—which vexes him profoundly, by the bye,—Herve de Sainfoy, who for family reasons—"

"Oh, mon Dieu!" Anne cried, and burst out laughing. "You really mean that Herve de Sainfoy has sent you as his ambassador—see our injustice, Monsieur le Cure, yours and mine—to announce to me that he is going to give a ball while my son is in prison, in danger of his life, or already dead, for all I know! Really, that is magnificent! What politeness, what feeling for Urbain, n'est-ce pas? He did not wish me to hear such interesting news through the gossip of the village—do you hear, Monsieur le Cure? You brought it too soon. And my invitation?" she held out her hand. "Did he give you a card for me, or will Madame la Comtesse take the trouble to send it herself?"

"Ah, bah!" cried Joseph, springing from his chair and pirouetting before the fire; "but you are a little too severe on poor Herve, my dear sister! I assure you, I showed him what I thought. But I perceived that his vexation is real—real and sincere. The circumstances—he explained them all in the most amiable manner—"

Anne interrupted him, laughing again. "I see the facts—the one fact—what are the circumstances to me?"

"They are a great deal to Herve," Monsieur Joseph persisted.

"Herve, Herve!" she cried. "But Joseph—mon Dieu, how can you take his wretched excuses! I thought you loved Ange! I thought the boy—"

She broke off with a sob, turning white as death. The two men stared at her, Monsieur Joseph with wild eyes and trembling lips. Would this be more than he could bear?

He took refuge in talking. He talked so fast that he hardly knew what he was saying. He poured out Herve's explanations, his regrets, his trouble of mind. Georges was bent upon this ball; it had been proposed long before his return; the first invitations had been sent out directly he came. He wished to make acquaintance with all the neighbours, old and new, official, or friends of the family; he wished to pay a special compliment to the officers at Sonnay, his brothers in arms. A formal invitation had been sent to General Ratoneau, who had actually accepted it, to Herve's great surprise. He had laughed and said that the dog wanted another thrashing. But let him come, if he chose to humble himself! He might see even more clearly that Helene was not for him. In Adelaide's opinion, no private prejudices must have anything to do with this ball. It was given chiefly as a matter of politics, under imperial colours; it was for the interest of Georges that his family should thus definitely range itself with the Empire.

"Poor Herve said that he had already, more than once, spoilt his wife's calculations and failed to support her views. She and Georges, whatever private feeling might be, thought it impossible to put off this ball because of the misfortune that happened to Angelot. They would be understood to show sympathy with the Chouans. Then he abused me well, poor Herve," said Monsieur Joseph, amiably. "He said, as Urbain did, that I had ruined Angelot's life, and it was no one's fault but mine. 'Well, dear cousin,' I said to him, 'I will punish myself by not appearing at this fine ball of yours. Not that my dancing days are over, but for me, Ange's absence would spoil all.' 'You love that fellow!' says Herve, looking at me. 'Love him!' says I. 'I would cut off my right hand to serve him, and that is a good deal for a sportsman.' Herve laughed as I said it. I do not dislike that poor Herve, though his wife rules him. Listen to me, you two. I believe if Ange had been reasonable and honest, Herve might have given him his daughter."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Anne. "But if you love Ange, do not blame him. He was young, he was mad, the girl was beautiful—and, after all, Joseph, you had something to do with putting that into his head. Ah, we are all to blame! We have all been cruel, blind, selfish. You and I thought of the King, Urbain thought of his cousins, they thought of themselves. We left my boy to find his own way in a time like this, and your Chouan friends were as dangerous for him as Helene de Sainfoy. Ah! and you excuse yourself with a laugh from dancing on his grave!"

She wrung her hands, threw herself back in her chair with a passionate sigh.

"Madame," said the Cure, suddenly;—his dim but watchful eyes had been fixed on Joseph; "Madame, Monsieur Joseph could tell you, if he would, what has become of Angelot. He is not dead; I doubt if he is even in prison. Ah, monsieur, you do not dissimulate well!" as Joseph made him an eager sign to be silent.

But it was too late, for Anne was holding his two hands, and in the light of her eyes all his secret doings lay open.

"Why did I come!" he said to himself, in the intervals of a very difficult explanation. "There is some magic in those walls of Lancilly, which attracts and ruins us all. If we live through this, thousand thunders, Herve de Sainfoy may make his own excuses to our dear little Anne in future!"



CHAPTER XXII

THE LIGHTED WINDOWS OF LANCILLY

There was no way out of it, without telling all. Fortunately Joseph knew that his secrets were safe with these two, whose hearts were absolutely Royalist, though circumstances held them bound to inactivity. Presently Anne rose and left the room.

"Thank God! that is over," Joseph said, half to himself. "I must be going. Monsieur le Cure, I leave her to you. Do not let her be too anxious. D'Ombre is rough, but a good fellow; he will take care of our Angelot."

The old Cure was plunged in gloom. Tall and slight in his long black garment, he stood under the high chimneypiece, and leaned forward shivering, to warm his fingers at the blaze.

"Ah, monsieur!" he murmured. "Have you thought what you are doing? Can you expect good to come out of evil? Your brother, who has done everything for us all, how are you treating him? If madame does not see it, I do. You are taking Ange, making him a conspirator and a Chouan. If you save him from one danger, you plunge him into a greater, for if he and Monsieur d'Ombre are caught on this mission, they will certainly pay for it with their lives. You are doing all this without his father's knowledge—"

"Ah, my dear Cure, I know the police better than you do," Monsieur Joseph said hastily. "These young fellows will not be the first who have escaped to England; and Ange cannot stay here with their eyes and claws upon him. Even his father would not wish that. Leave it to me. What is it, Anne? what are you thinking of?"

His sister-in-law had come back into the room, wrapped in a cloak, with a hood drawn over her face.

"I am going with you to see Ange," she said.

The wind was howling, the rain was pattering outside. But Monsieur Joseph had all the trouble in the world to make her give up this idea. At last, after many arguments and prayers, he persuaded her that she must not come to Les Chouettes but must absolutely trust Ange to him. He promised solemnly that the young man should not start without her knowing it, that, if possible, she should see her boy again.

"And if Urbain comes back before they are gone?" she said, looking whitely into his face. "I tell you positively, Joseph, I shall not dare—"

"My dear friend, owing to Monsieur le Cure's unfortunate second-sight, your son's life is in your hands. If Urbain comes back, tell him all, if you will. His presence did not save Ange from being arrested before, it will not save him from being retaken. My fault, perhaps, as Urbain said—all my fault—" He struck his breast as if in church, with his fine smile. "But then it is my place to save him, and I will do it, if you will let me—in my own way."

They were both trembling, and large tears ran down the old Cure's thin cheeks. Joseph, still smiling, bent to kiss her hand. He held it for a moment, then looked up with dark imploring eyes.

"Adieu, chere Anne! and think of me with all your charity!" he said.

A minute later he had slipped noiselessly out, and plunged alone into the wet, howling darkness.

Through those days of suspense, while Angelot was hidden at Les Chouettes, while master and servants alike acted on the supposition that the house was watched by gendarmes with all the power of the Ministry of Police behind them—through these days, one person alone was happy; it was Henriette. She adored her cousin; it was joy to watch over him, to scold him, to amuse him, to keep him, a difficult matter, within the bounds prescribed by his uncle. Every day Angelot said it was impossible; he must be ill, he must die, if he could not stretch his legs and breathe the open air. Every day Henriette, when her father was out, allowed him to race up and down the stairs, played at hide-and-seek with him in the passages, let him dance her round and round the lower rooms. Or else she played games with him, cards, chess, tric-trac; or he lay and listened to her while she told him fairy tales; listened with a dreamy half-understanding, with a certainty, underlying all his impatience, that there was nothing to live for now. What did it matter, after all? One moment, life and hope and youth made him thrill and tremble in every limb; the next, his fate weighed upon him like a millstone; he laid his head down on the broad pillow of the sofa, and while Henriette chattered his eyelashes were sometimes wet. All was settled now. He must be banished to England, to Germany, banished in a cause he did not care for, in which he was involved against his will. Never again should he walk with his gun and Nego, light-hearted, over his own old country. Never again, more certainly, should he see Helene, feel the maddening sweetness of her touch, her kiss. There was to be a ball. Henriette told him all about it; he heard of his cousin Herve's visit, and was half amused, half miserable. Helene would dance; white and slender, her eyes full of sadness. She would dance with other men, thinking, he knew, of her lost friend, her Angelot. In time, one of them would be presented to her as her husband. Not Ratoneau; Angelot had her father's word for that, and he drew a long breath when he thought of it. But some one else; that was inevitable. Ah! as life must pass, why cannot it pass more quickly? Why must every day have such an endless number of hours and minutes? What torture is there greater than this of waiting, stifled and idle, for a fate arranged in spite of one's self?

Henriette flitted in and out, eager and earnest like her father. After Monsieur Joseph's visit to La Mariniere, he sent her there one day with Marie, and she was embraced by her aunt Anne with a quite new passion of tenderness, and trusted with a letter and a huge parcel of necessaries for Angelot's journey. Monsieur Joseph laughed a little angrily over these.

"Tiens, mon petit! your mother thinks you are going to drive to the coast in a chaise and four," he said; but Angelot bent his head very gravely over the coats and the shirts that those little thin hands had folded together for him.

"You must give me fair notice, Uncle Joseph," he said. "Police or no police, I do not go without wishing her good-bye."

Everything came at once, as fate would have it. It was after dark, a wild, windy evening, stars looking through the hurrying clouds, no moonrise till early morning. With every precaution, Monsieur Joseph now allowed his nephew to dine in the dining-room, taking care to place him where he could not be seen from outside when Gigot came in through the shutters from the kitchen. Angelot had now been kept in hiding for ten days, and the police seemed to have disappeared from the woods, so that Monsieur Joseph's mind was easier.

Suddenly, as they sat at dinner that evening, all the dogs began to bark.

"Go into your den!" said the little uncle, starting up.

"No, dear uncle, this game pie is too good," Angelot said coolly. "I heard a horse coming down the lane. It is Monsieur d'Ombre's messenger."

"If it is—very true, you had better eat your dinner," said his uncle.

And to be sure, in a few minutes, Gigot came in with a letter, Angelot's marching orders. At five o'clock the next morning Cesar d'Ombre would wait for him at the Etang des Morts, a lonely, legend-haunted pool in the woods where four roads met, about two leagues beyond the landes by way of La Joubardiere.

"Very well; you will start at three o'clock," said Monsieur Joseph. "Give the man something to eat and send him back, Gigot, to meet his master."

"Three o'clock! I shall be asleep!" said Angelot. "Surely an hour will be enough to take me to the Etang des Morts—a cheerful rendezvous!"

He laughed and looked at Riette. She was very pale and grave, her dark eyes wide open.

"The good dead—they will watch over you, mon petit!" she murmured. "We must not be afraid of them."

"This is not a time for talking nonsense, children," said Monsieur Joseph; he looked at them severely, his mouth trembling. "Half-past three at latest; the boy might lose his way in the dark."

Riette got up suddenly and flung her arms round Angelot's neck.

"Mon petit, mon petit!" she repeated, burying her face on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he cried. "How am I to finish my dinner? You come between me and the best pie that Marie ever made! Get along with you, little good-for-nothing!"

He laughed; then Marie's pie seemed to choke him; he pushed back his chair, lifted Riette lightly and carried her out of the room.

"Now I am in prison no longer," he said. "I am going to run across to La Mariniere; will you come too, little cousin?"

But Monsieur Joseph had something to say to that. He would not let Angelot go without sermons so long that the boy could hardly listen to them, on the care he was to take that no servant or dog at La Mariniere saw him, on the things he might and might not say to his mother.

At last Angelot said aside to Henriette: "There is only one thing I regret—that I did not go straight home at first to my father and mother. That will bring misfortune on us all, if anything does—my uncle is absolutely too much of a conspirator."

"Hush, you are ungrateful," said Riette, gravely.

"Ah! It seems to me that I am nothing good or fortunate—everything bad and unlucky! My relations and their politics toss me like a ball," Angelot sighed impatiently. "I wish this night were over and we were on our way, I and that excellent grumpy Cesar. And the farther I go, the more I shall want to come back. Tiens! Riette, I am miserable!"

The child gazed at him with her great eyes, full of the love and understanding of a woman.

"Courage!" she said. "You will come back—with the King."

"The King!" Angelot repeated bitterly. "Ask Martin Joubard about that. Hear him talk of the Emperor."

"A peasant! a common soldier! What does he know?" said the girl, scornfully. "I think my papa knows better."

"Ah, well! Believe in him; you are right," said Angelot.

They talked as they stood outside the house in the dim starlight, waiting a few moments for Monsieur Joseph: he chose to go part of the way with Angelot, and consented unwillingly to take Riette with him. The dead silence of the woods and fields was only broken by the moan of the wind; a sadness that struck to the heart brooded over the depths of lonely land; far down in the valley cold mists were creeping, and even on the lower slopes of Monsieur Joseph's meadow a chilly damp rose from the undrained ground. As far as one could tell, not a human being moved in the woods; the feet of Monsieur d'Ombre's messenger had passed up the lane out of hearing; all was solitary and silent about the quaint turreted house with its many shuttered windows and dark guards lying silent, stretched on the sand. Only one of these rose and shook himself and followed his master.

But the loneliness was not so great as it seemed. Behind a large tree to leeward of the house, Simon was lurking alone. He had sent his men away for the night, and he ground his teeth with rage when he saw his victim, out of reach for the time. For he had not the courage, with no law or right on his side, to face the uncle and nephew, armed and together.

Avoiding the open starlit slope, those three with the dog passed at once into the shadow of the woods, thus taking the safest, though not the shortest way to La Mariniere. Simon stole after them at a safe distance. They came presently to a high corner in a lane, where, over the bank on which the pollard oaks stood in line, they could look across to the other side of the valley. As a rule, the Chateau de Lancilly was hardly to be seen after sunset, facing east, and its own woods shadowing it on three sides; but to-night its long front shone and glowed and flashed with light; every window seemed to be open and illuminated; the effect was so festal, so dazzling, that Riette cried out in admiration. Monsieur Joseph exclaimed angrily, and Angelot gazed in silence.

"Ah, papa! It is the ball! How beautiful! How I wish I could be there!" cried the child.

"No doubt!" said Monsieur Joseph. "Exactly! You would like to dance till to-morrow morning, while Ange is escaping. Well, shall I take you across there now? One of your pretty cousins would lend you a ball-dress!"