Александр Дюма
The Last Vendée
"How can you tell that?" asked the young man.
"By the way the horses gallop. Let us walk faster, please."
The sounds came nearer, and in less than five minutes a dark group showed in the distance. Soon it was seen to be two horses, – a woman riding one and leading the other.
"I told you it was my sister," said Bertha.
The young man had already recognized her, less by her person, scarcely distinguishable in the darkness, than by the beating of his heart.
Mary, too, had recognized him, and this was plain from the gesture of amazement which escaped her. It was evident that she expected to find her sister alone or with Rosine, – certainly not with the young baron. Michel saw the impression his presence had produced, and he advanced.
"Mademoiselle," he said to Mary, "I met your sister on her way to carry assistance to poor Tinguy, and in order that she might not be alone I have accompanied her."
"You did perfectly right, monsieur," replied Mary.
"You don't understand," said Bertha, laughing. "He thinks he must excuse me or excuse himself. Do forgive him for something; his mamma is going to scold him." Then leaning on Mary's saddle, and speaking close to her ear, "What is it, darling?" she asked.
"The attempt at Marseille has failed."
"I know that; and Madame has re-embarked."
"That's a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"Yes. Madame declares that as she is in France she will stay."
"Can it be true?"
"Yes; and she is now on her way to La Vendée, – in fact, she may actually be here now."
"How did you hear all this?"
"Through a message received from her to-night at the château de Montaigu, just as the meeting was about to break up disheartened."
"Gallant soul!" cried Bertha, enthusiastically.
"Papa returned home at full gallop, and finding where you were, he told me to take the horses and fetch you."
"Well, here I am!" said Bertha, putting her foot into the stirrup.
"Are not you going to bid good-bye to your poor knight?"
"Oh, yes," said Bertha, holding out her hand to the young man, who advanced to take it slowly and sadly.
"Ah! Mademoiselle Bertha," he murmured, taking her hand, "I am very unhappy."
"Why?" she asked.
"Not to be, as you said just now, one of you."
"What prevents it?" said Mary, holding out her hand to him.
The young man darted on that hand and kissed it in a passion of love and gratitude.
"Oh! yes, yes, yes," he murmured, so low that Mary alone could hear him; "for you, mademoiselle, and with you."
Mary's hand was roughly torn from his grasp by a sudden movement of her horse. Bertha, in touching hers, had struck that of her sister on the flank. Horses and riders, starting at a gallop, were soon lost like shadows in the darkness.
The young man stood motionless in the roadway.
"Adieu!" cried Bertha.
"Au revoir!" cried Mary.
"Yes, yes, yes," he said, stretching his arms toward their vanishing figures; "yes, au revoir! au revoir!"
The two girls continued their way without uttering a word, until they reached the castle gate, and there Bertha said, abruptly: -
"Mary, I know you will laugh at me!"
"Why?" asked Mary, trembling.
"I love him!" replied Bertha.
A cry of pain had almost escaped from Mary's lips, but she smothered it.
"And I called to him 'au revoir!'" she whispered to herself. "God grant I may never, never see him again."
XIII.
A DISTANT COUSIN
The day after the events we have just related, – that is to say, on the 7th of May, 1832, – a great dinner-party was given at the château de Vouillé, to celebrate the birthday of Madame la Comtesse de Vouillé, who had on that day completed her twenty-fourth year.
The company had just sat down to table, and at this table, among twenty-five other guests, was the prefect of Vienne and the mayor of Châtellerault, relations more or less distant of Madame de Vouillé.
The soup was just removed when a servant entered the dining-room, and said a few words in Monsieur de Vouillé's ear. Monsieur de Vouillé made the man repeat them twice. Then addressing his guests, he said: -
"I beg you to excuse me for a few moments. A lady has arrived at the gate in a post-chaise, and she insists on speaking to me personally. Will you allow me to see what this lady wants?"
Permission was, of course, unanimously granted, though Madame de Vouillé's eyes followed her husband to the door with some uneasiness.
Monsieur de Vouillé hastened to the gate. There, sure enough, was a post-chaise, containing two persons, a man and a woman. A servant in sky-blue livery with silver lace, was on the box. When he saw Monsieur de Vouillé, whom he seemed to be expecting impatiently, he jumped lightly down.
"Come, come, slow coach!" he said, as soon as the count was near enough to hear him.
Monsieur de Vouillé stopped short, amazed, – more than amazed, stupefied. What manner of servant was this, who dared to apostrophize him in that style? He went nearer to let the fellow know his mind. Then he stopped, and burst out laughing.
"What! is it you, de Lussac?" he said.
"Yes; undoubtedly, it is I."
"What is all this masquerading about?"
The counterfeit servant opened the carriage door and offered his arm to enable the lady to get out of the chaise. Then he said: -
"My dear count, I have the honor to present you to Madame la Duchesse de Berry." Bowing to the duchess, he continued, "Madame la duchesse, Monsieur le Comte de Vouillé is one of my best friends and one of your most devoted servants."
The count retreated a few steps.
"Madame la Duchesse de Berry!" he exclaimed, stupefied.
"In person, monsieur," said the duchess.
"Are you not proud and happy to receive her Royal Highness?" said de Lussac.
"As proud and happy as an ardent royalist can be; but-"
"What! is there a but?" asked the duchess.
"This is my wife's birthday, and we have twenty-five guests now dining with us."
"Well, monsieur, there is a French proverb which says, 'Enough for two is enough for three.' I am sure you will extend the maxim to mean 'Enough for twenty-five is enough for twenty-eight;' for I warn you that Monsieur de Lussac, servant as he is, must dine at table, and he is dying of hunger."
"Yes; but don't be uneasy," said the Baron de Lussac. "I'll take off my livery."
Monsieur de Vouillé seized his head with both hands, as if he meant to tear out his hair.
"What shall I do? what can I do?" he cried.
"Come," said the duchess, "let us talk sense."
"Talk sense!" said the count; "how can I? I am half crazy."
"Evidently not with joy," said the duchess.
"No, with terror, madame."
"Oh! you exaggerate the situation."
"But, madame, you are entering the lion's den. I have the prefect of Vienne and the mayor of Châtellerault at my table."
"Very good; then you will present them to me."
"Good God! and under what title?"
"That of a cousin. You surely have some distant cousin, whose name will answer the purpose."
"What an idea, madame!"
"Come, put it to use."
"I certainly have a cousin in Toulouse, – Madame de la Myre."
"The very thing! I am Madame de la Myre."
Then turning round in the carriage she offered her hand to an old man about sixty-five years of age, who seemed waiting till the discussion ended before he showed himself.
"Come, Monsieur de la Myre," said the duchess, "this is a surprise we are giving our cousin, and we arrive just in time to keep his wife's birthday. Come, cousin!"
So saying she jumped lightly out of the carriage and gayly slipped her arm into that of the Comte de Vouillé.
"Yes, come!" said Monsieur de Vouillé, his mind made up to risk the adventure into which the duchess was so joyously rushing. "Come!"
"Wait for me," cried the Baron de Lussac, jumping into the carriage, which he transformed into a dressing-room, and changing his sky-blue livery for a black surtout coat; "don't leave me behind."
"But who the devil are you to be?" asked M. de Vouillé.
"Oh! I'll be the Baron de Lussac, and-if Madame will permit me-the cousin of your cousin."
"Stop! stop! monsieur le baron," said the old gentleman, who had not yet spoken; "it seems to me that you are taking a great liberty."
"Pooh! we are on a campaign," said the duchess; "I permit it."
Monsieur de Vouillé now bravely led the way into the dining-room. The curiosity of the guests and the uneasiness of the mistress of the house were all the more excited by this prolonged absence. So, when the door of the dining-room opened all eyes turned to the new arrivals.
Whatever difficulties there may have been in playing the parts they had thus unexpectedly assumed, none of the actors were at all disconcerted.
"Dear," said the count to his wife, "I have often spoken to you of my cousin in Toulouse-"
"Madame de la Myre?" interrupted the countess, eagerly.
"Yes, – Madame de la Myre. She is on her way to Nantes, and would not pass the château without making your acquaintance. How fortunate that she comes on your birthday! I hope it will bring luck to both."
"Dear cousin!" said the duchess, opening her arms to Madame de Vouillé.
The two women kissed each other. As for the two men M. de Vouillé contented himself with saying aloud, "Monsieur de la Myre," "Monsieur de Lussac."
The company bowed.
"Now," said M. de Vouillé, "we must find seats for these new-comers, who warn me that they are dying of hunger."
Every one moved a little. The table was large, and all the guests had plenty of elbow-room; it was not difficult therefore to place three additional persons.
"Did you not tell me, my dear cousin," said the duchess, "that the prefect of Vienne was dining with you?"
"Yes, madame; and that is he whom you see on the countess's right, with spectacles, a white cravat, and the rosette of an officer of the Legion of honor in his buttonhole."
"Oh! pray present us."
Monsieur de Vouillé boldly carried on the comedy. He felt there was nothing to be done but to play it out. Accordingly, he approached the prefect, who was majestically leaning back in his chair.
"Monsieur le préfet," he said, "this is my cousin, who, with her traditional respect for authority, thinks that a general presentation is not enough, and therefore wishes to be presented to you particularly."
"Generally, particularly, and officially," replied the gallant functionary, "madame is and ever will be welcome."
"I accept the pledge, monsieur," said the duchess.
"Madame is going to Nantes?" asked the prefect, by way of making a remark.
"Yes, monsieur; and thence to Paris, – at least, I hope so."
"It is not, I presume, the first time that Madame visits the capital?"
"No, monsieur; I lived there twelve years."
"And Madame left it-"
"Oh! very unwillingly, I assure you."
"Recently?"
"Two years ago last July."
"I can well understand that having once lived in Paris-"
"I should wish to return there. I am glad you understand that."
"Oh, Paris! Paris!" said the functionary.
"The paradise of the world!" said the duchess.
"Come, take your seats," said Monsieur de Vouillé.
"Oh, my dear cousin," said the duchess, with a glance at the place he intended for her, "leave me beside Monsieur le préfet, I entreat you. He has just expressed himself with so much feeling about the thing I have most at heart that I place him, at once, on my list of friends."
The prefect, delighted with the compliment, drew aside his chair, and Madame was installed in the seat to his left, to the detriment of the person to whom that place of honor had been assigned. The two men accepted without objection the seats given to them, and were soon busy-M. de Lussac especially-in doing justice to the repast. The other guests followed their example, and for a time nothing broke the solemn silence which attends the beginning of a long-delayed and impatiently awaited dinner.
Madame was the first to break that silence. Her adventurous spirit, like the petrel, was more at ease in a gale.
"Well," she remarked, "I think our arrival must have interrupted the conversation. Nothing is so depressing as a silent dinner. I detest such dinners, my dear count; they are like those state functions at the Tuileries, where, they tell me, no one was allowed to speak unless the king had spoken. What were you all talking about before we came in?"
"Dear cousin," said M. de Vouillé, "the prefect was kindly giving us the official details of that blundering affair at Marseille."
"Blundering affair?" said the duchess.
"That's what he called it."
"And the words exactly describe the thing," said the functionary. "Can you conceive of an expedition of that character for which the arrangements were so carelessly made that it only required a sub-lieutenant of the 13th regiment to arrest one of the leaders of the outbreak and knock the whole affair in the head at once?"
"But don't you know, Monsieur le préfet," said the duchess, in a melancholy tone, "in all great events there is a moment, a supreme moment, when the destinies of princes and empires are shaken like leaves in the wind? For example, when Napoleon at La Mure advanced to meet the soldiers who were sent against him, if a sub-lieutenant of any kind had taken him by the collar the return from Elba would have been nothing more than a blundering affair."
There was silence after that, Madame having said the words in a grieved tone. She herself re-opened the matter.
"And the Duchesse de Berry?" she said; "is it known what became of her?"
"She returned on board of the 'Carlo Alberto.'"
"Ah!"
"It was the only sensible thing she could do, it seems to me," said the prefect.
"You are quite right, monsieur," said the old gentleman, who had accompanied Madame, and who had not before spoken; "and if I had had the honor to be near her Highness and she had granted me some authority, I should have given her that advice."
"No one was addressing you, my good husband," said the duchess. "I am speaking to the prefect, and I want to know if he is quite sure her Royal Highness has re-embarked?"
"Madame," said the prefect, with one of those administrative gestures which admit of no contradiction, "the government is officially informed of it."
"Ah!" exclaimed the duchess, "if the government is officially informed of it, of course there is nothing to be said; but," she added, venturing on still more slippery ground, "I did hear differently."
"Madame!" said the old gentleman, in a tone of slight reproach.
"What did you hear, cousin?" asked M. de Vouillé, who was beginning to take the interest of a gambler in the game that was being played before him.
"Yes, what have you heard, madame?" said the prefect.
"Oh, you understand, Monsieur le préfet, that it is not for me to give you official news," said the duchess. "I am only telling you of rumors, which may be mere nonsense."
"Madame de la Myre!" said the old man.
"Well, Monsieur de la Myre?" said the duchess.
"Do you know, madame," said the prefect, "that I think your husband is very interfering. I will wager it is he who does not want you to go to Paris?"
"That is precisely true. But I hope to go there in spite of him. 'What woman wills, God wills.'"
"Oh, women! women!" cried the public functionary.
"What now?" asked the duchess.
"Nothing," said the prefect. "I am waiting, Madame, to hear the rumors you mentioned just now about the Duchesse de Berry."
"Oh! they are simple enough. I heard, – but pray remember I give them on no authority but common report, – I have heard that the Duchesse de Berry rejected the advice of all her friends, and obstinately refused to re-embark on the 'Carlo Alberto.'"
"Then where is she now?" asked the prefect.
"In France."
"In France! What can she do in France?"
"Why, you know very well, Monsieur le préfet," said the duchess, "that her Royal Highness's chief object is La Vendée."
"No doubt; but having failed so signally at the South-"
"All the more reason why she should try for success at the West."
The prefect smiled disdainfully.
"Then you really think she has re-embarked?" asked the duchess.
"I can positively assure you," said the prefect, "that she is at this moment in the dominions of the king of Sardinia, from whom France is about to ask an explanation."
"Poor king of Sardinia! He will give a very simple one."
"What?"
"He will say, 'I always knew Madame was a crazy creature; but I never thought her craziness would lead her quite as far as this-'"
"Madame! madame!" said the old man.
"Ah, ça! Monsieur de la Myre," said the duchess, "I do hope that although you interfere with my wishes, you will have the grace to respect my opinions, – all the more because I am sure they are those of Monsieur le préfet. Are they not, monsieur?"
"The truth is," said that functionary, laughing, "that her Royal Highness has behaved in this whole affair with the utmost folly."
"There! you see," said the duchess. "What would happen, Monsieur le préfet, if these rumors were true and Madame should really come to La Vendée?"
"How can she get here?" asked the prefect.
"Why, through the neighboring departments, or through yours. They tell me she was seen at Toulouse in an open carriage while changing horses."
"Good heavens!" cried the prefect; "that would be a little too bold."
"So bold that Monsieur le préfet doesn't believe it?"
"Not one word of it," said the official emphasizing each monosyllable as he uttered it.
At that moment the door opened, and one of the count's footmen announced that a clerk from the prefecture asked permission to deliver a telegraphic despatch just received from Paris for the prefect.
"Will you permit him to enter?" said the prefect to the count.
"Why, of course," said the latter.
The clerk entered and gave a sealed package to the prefect, who bowed his excuses to the company for opening it.
Absolute silence reigned. All eyes were fixed on the despatch. Madame exchanged signs with M. de Vouillé, who laughed under his breath, with M. de Lussac, who laughed aloud, and with her so-called husband who maintained his imperturbably grave manner.
"Whew!" cried the public functionary suddenly, while his features were indiscreet enough to betray the utmost surprise.
"What is the news?" asked M. de Vouillé.
"The news is," exclaimed the prefect, "that Madame de la Myre was right in what she said about her Royal Highness. Her Royal Highness has not left France; her Royal Highness is on her way to La Vendée, through Toulouse, Libourne, and Poitiers."
So saying, the prefect rose.
"Where are you going, Monsieur le préfet?" asked the duchess.
"To do my duty, madame, painful as it is, and give orders that her Royal Highness be arrested if, as this despatch warns me, she is imprudent enough to pass through my department."
"Do so, Monsieur le préfet; do so," said the duchess. "I can only applaud your zeal and assure you that I shall remember it when occasion offers."
She held out her hand to the prefect, who kissed it gallantly, after having, with a look, asked Monsieur de la Myre's permission to do so.
XIV.
PETIT-PIERRE
Let us now return to the cottage of the goodman Tinguy, which we left for a time to make that excursion to the château de Vouillé.
Forty-eight hours have gone by. Bertha and Michel are again at the sick man's bedside. Though the regular visits which Doctor Roger now paid rendered the young girl's presence in that fever-stricken place unnecessary, Bertha, in spite of Mary's remonstrances, persisted in her care of the Vendéan peasant. Nevertheless, it is probable that Christian charity was not the only motive which drew her to his cottage.
However that may be, it is certain that, by natural coincidence, Michel, who had got over his terrors, was already installed in the cottage when Bertha got there. Was it Bertha for whom Michel was looking? We dare not answer. Perhaps he thought that Mary, too, might take her turn in these charitable functions. Perhaps, too, he may have hoped that the fair-haired sister would not lose this occasion of meeting him, after the warmth of their last parting. His heart therefore beat violently when he saw the shadow of a woman's form, which he knew by its elegance could belong only to a Demoiselle de Souday, projecting itself upon the cottage door.
When he recognized Bertha the young man felt a measure of disappointed hope; but as, by virtue of his love, he was full of tenderness for the Marquis de Souday, of sympathy for the crabbed Jean Oullier, and of benevolence for even their dogs, how could he fail to love Mary's sister? The affection shown to one would certainly bring him nearer to the other; besides, what happiness to hear this sister mention the absent sister. Consequently, he was full of attentions and solicitude for Bertha, who accepted all with a satisfaction she took no pains to conceal.
It was difficult, however, to think of other matters than the condition of the sick man, which was hourly growing worse and worse. He had fallen into that state of torpor and insensibility which physicians call coma, and which, in inflammatory diseases, usually characterizes the period preceding death. He no longer noticed what was passing around him, and answered only when distinctly spoken to. The pupils of his eyes, which were frightfully dilated, were fixed and staring. He was almost rigid, though from time to time his hands endeavored to pull the coverlet over his face, or draw to him something that he seemed to see beside his bed.
Bertha, who, in spite of her youth, had more than once been present at such a scene, no longer felt any hope for the poor man's life. She wished to spare Rosine the anguish of witnessing her father's death-struggle, which she knew was beginning, and she told her to go at once and fetch Doctor Roger.
"But I can go, mademoiselle, if you like," said Michel. "I have better legs than Rosine. Besides, it isn't safe for her to go through those roads at night."
"No, Monsieur Michel, there is no danger for Rosine, and I have my own reasons for keeping you here. I hope it is not disagreeable to you to remain?"
"Oh, mademoiselle, how can you think it? Only I am so happy in being able to serve you that I try to let no occasion pass."
"Don't be anxious about that," said Bertha, smiling; "perhaps, before long, I shall have more than one occasion to put your devotion to the proof."
Rosine had hardly been gone ten minutes before the sick man seemed suddenly and extraordinarily better. His eyes lost their fixed stare, his breathing became easier, his rigid fingers relaxed, and he passed them over his forehead to wipe away the sweat which began to pour from it.
"How do you feel, dear Tinguy?" said the girl.
"Better," he answered, in a feeble voice. "The good God doesn't mean me to desert before the battle," he added, trying to smile.
"Perhaps not; because it is for him you are going to fight."
The peasant shook his head sadly and sighed.
"Monsieur Michel," said Bertha to the young man, drawing him into a corner of the room, so that her voice should not reach the patient, "go and fetch the vicar and rouse the neighbors."
"Isn't he better? He said so just now."
"Child that you are! Did you never see a lamp go out? The last flame is brightest, and so it is with our miserable bodies. Go at once. There will be no death-struggle. The fever has exhausted him; the soul is going without a struggle, shock, or effort."
"And are you to be left alone with him?"
"Go at once, and don't think about me."
Michel went out, and Bertha returned to Tinguy, who held out his hand.
"Thank you, my brave young lady," said the peasant.
"Thank me for what, père Tinguy?"
"For your care, and also for thinking of sending for the vicar."
"You heard me?"
This time Tinguy smiled outright.
"Yes," he said, "low as you spoke."
"But you mustn't think that the presence of the priest means that you are going to die, my good Tinguy. Don't be frightened."
"Frightened!" cried the peasant, trying to sit up in his bed. "Frightened! why? I have respected the old and cared for the young; I have suffered without a murmur; I have toiled without complaining, praising God when the hail beat down my wheat and the harvest failed; never have I turned away the beggar whom Sainte-Anne has sent to my fireside; I have kept the commandments of God and of the Church; when the priests said, 'Rise and take your guns,' I fought the enemies of my faith and my king; I have been humble in victory and hopeful in defeat; I was still ready to give my life for the sacred cause, and shall I be frightened now? Oh, no! mademoiselle; this is the day of days to us poor Christians, – the glorious day of death. Ignorant as I am, I know that this day makes us equals with the great and prosperous of the earth. It has come for me; God calls me to him. I am ready; I go before his judgment-seat in full assurance of his mercy."
Tinguy's face was illuminated as he said the words; but this last religious enthusiasm exhausted the poor man's strength. He fell heavily back upon his pillow, muttering a few unintelligible words, among which could be distinguished "blues," "parish," and the names of God and the Virgin.
The vicar entered at this moment. Bertha showed him the sick man, and the priest, understanding what she wanted of him, began at once the prayer for the dying.
Michel begged Bertha to leave the room, and the young girl consenting, they both went out after saying a last prayer at Tinguy's bedside.
One after the other, the neighbors came in; each knelt down and repeated after the priest the litanies of death. Two slender candles of yellow wax, placed on either side of a brass crucifix, lighted the gloomy scene.
Suddenly, at the moment when the priest and the assistants were reciting mentally the "Ave Maria!" an owl's cry, sounding not far distant from the cottage, rose above the dull hum of their mutterings. The peasants trembled.
At the sound the dying man, whose eyes were already glazing and his breath hissing, raised his head.
"I'm here!" he cried; "I'm ready! I am the guide."
Then he tried to imitate the owl's cry in reply to the one he had heard, but he could not. The lingering breath gave a sob, his head fell back, his eyes opened widely. He was dead.
A stranger stood on the threshold of the door. He was a young Breton peasant, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a red waistcoat and silver buttons, a blue jacket embroidered with red, and high leather gaiters. He carried in his hand one of those sticks with iron points, which the country people use when they make a journey.
He seemed surprised at the scene before his eyes; but he asked no question of any one. He quietly knelt down and prayed; then he approached the bed, looked earnestly at the pale, discolored face of the poor peasant. Two heavy tears rolled down his cheeks; he wiped them away, and went out as he had come, silently.
The peasants, used to the religious custom which expects all those who pass the house of death to enter and say a prayer for the soul of the dying and a blessing on the body, were not surprised at the presence of a stranger, and paid no heed to his departure. The latter, on leaving the cottage, met another peasant, younger and smaller than himself, who seemed to be his brother; this one was riding a horse saddled and bridled in peasant fashion.
"Well, Rameau-d'or," said the younger, "what is it?"
"This," replied the other: "there is no place for us in that house. A guest is there whose presence fills it."
"Who is he?"
"Death."
"Who is dead?"
"He whose hospitality we came to ask. I would suggest to you to make a shield of his death and stay here; but I heard some one say that Tinguy died of typhoid fever, and though doctors deny the contagion, I cannot consent to expose you to it."
"You are not afraid that you were seen and recognized?"
"No, impossible. There were eight or ten persons, men and women, praying round the bed. I went in and knelt down and prayed with them. That is what all Breton and Vendéan peasants do in such cases."
"Well, what can we do now?" asked the younger of the two.
"I have already told you. We had to decide between the château of my former comrade or the cottage of the poor fellow who was to have been our guide, – between luxury and a princely house with poor security, and a narrow cottage, bad beds, buckwheat bread, and absolute safety. God himself has decided the matter. We have no choice; we must take the insecure comfort."
"But you think the château is not safe?"
"The château belongs to a friend of my childhood, whose father was made a baron by the Restoration. The father is dead, and the widow and son are now living in the château. If the son were alone, I should have no anxiety. He is rather weak, but his heart is sound. It is his mother I fear; she is selfish and ambitious, and I could not trust her."
"Oh, pooh! just for one night! You are not adventurous, Rameau-d'or."
"Yes I am, on my own account; but I am answerable to France, or at any rate, to my party for the life of Ma-"
"For Petit-Pierre. Ah, Rameau-d'or, that is the tenth forfeit you owe me since we started."
"It shall be the last, Ma-Petit-Pierre, I should say. In future I will think of you by no other name, and in no other relation than that of my brother."
"Come, then; let us go to the château. I am so weary that I would ask shelter of an ogress, – if there were any."
"We'll take a crossroad, which will carry us there in ten minutes," said the young man. "Seat yourself more comfortably in the saddle; I will walk before you, and you must follow me; otherwise we might miss the path, which is very faint."
"Wait a moment," said Petit-Pierre, slipping from his horse.
"Where are you going?" asked Rameau-d'or, anxiously.
"You said your prayer beside that poor peasant, and I want to say mine."
"Don't think of it!"
"Yes, yes; he was a brave and honest man," persisted Petit-Pierre. "He would have risked his life for us; I may well offer a little prayer beside his body."
Rameau-d'or raised his hat and stood aside to let his young companion pass.
The lad, like Rameau-d'or, entered the cottage, took a branch of holly, dipped it in holy water, and sprinkled the body with it. Then he knelt down and prayed at the foot of the bed, after which he left the cottage, without exciting more attention than his companion had done.
