CHAPTER XIV
AN UNPLEASANT COMMISSION
The hunt was over, darkness was falling, and it was now a question
of returning to the château. The horses were nearby; they could
hear them neighing impatiently. They seemed to be asking if their
courage was so doubted that they were not allowed to share in
the exciting drama.
Edouard was bent upon dragging the boar after them, fastening
it to the saddle-bow, and so carrying it back to the château;
but Roland pointed out that it was simpler to send a couple of
men for it with a barrow. Sir John being of the same opinion,
Edouard--who never ceased pointing to the wound in the head,
and saying, "That's my shot; that's where I aimed"--Edouard, we
say, was forced to yield to the majority. The three hunters soon
reached the spot where their horses were tethered, mounted, and in
less than ten minutes were at the Château des Noires-Fontaines.
Madame de Montrevel was watching for them on the portico. The
poor mother had waited there nearly an hour, trembling lest an
accident had befallen one or the other of her sons. The moment
Edouard espied her he put his pony to a gallop, shouting from
the gate: "Mother, mother! We killed a boar as big as a donkey.
I shot him in the head; you'll see the hole my ball, made; Roland
stuck his hunting knife into the boar's belly up to the hilt, and
Sir John fired at him twice. Quick, quick! Send the men for the
carcass. Don't be frightened when you see Roland. He's all covered
with blood--but it's from the boar, and he hasn't a scratch."
This was delivered with Edouard's accustomed volubility while
Madame de Montrevel was crossing the clearing between the portico
and the road to open the gate. She intended to take Edouard in her
arms, but he jumped from his saddle and flung himself upon her
neck. Roland and Sir John came up just then, and Amélie appeared
on the portico at the same instant.
Edouard left his mother to worry over Roland, who, covered as
he was with blood, looked very terrifying, and rushed to his
sister with the tale he had rattled off to his mother. Amélie
listened in an abstracted manner that probably hurt Edouard's
vanity, for he dashed off to the kitchen to describe the affair
to Michel, who was certain to listen to him.
Michel was indeed interested; but when, after telling him where
the carcass lay, Edouard gave him Roland's order to send a couple
of men after the beast, he shook his head.
"What!" demanded Edouard, "are you going to refuse to obey my
brother?"
"Heaven forbid! Master Edouard. Jacques shall start this instant
for Montagnac."
"Are you afraid he won't find any body?"
"Goodness, no; he could get a dozen. But the trouble is the time
of night. You say the boar lies close to the pavilion of the
Chartreuse?"
"Not twenty yards from it."
"I'd rather it was three miles," replied Michel scratching his
head; "but never mind. I'll send for them anyway without telling
them what they're wanted for. Once here, it's for your brother
to make them go."
"Good! Good! Only get them here and I'll see to that myself."
"Oh!" exclaimed Michel, "if I hadn't this beastly sprain I'd go
myself. But to-day's doings have made it worse. Jacques! Jacques!"
Jacques came, and Edouard not only waited to hear the order given,
but until he had started. Then he ran upstairs to do what Roland
and Sir John were already doing, that is, dress for dinner.
The whole talk at table, as may be easily imagined, centred upon
the day's prowess. Edouard asked nothing better than to talk
about it, and Sir John, astounded by Roland's skill, courage,
and good luck, improved upon the child's narrative. Madame de
Montrevel shuddered at each detail, and yet she made them repeat
it twenty times. That which seemed most clear to her in all this
was that Roland had saved Edouard's life.
"Did you thank him for it?" she asked the boy. "Thank whom?"
"Your brother."
"Why should I thank him?" retorted Edouard. "I should have done
the same thing."
"Ah, madame, what can you expect!" said Sir John; "you are a gazelle
who has unwittingly given birth to a race of lions."
Amélie had also paid the closest attention to the account, especially
when the hunters spoke of their proximity to the Chartreuse.
From that time on she listened with anxious eyes, and seemed
scarcely to breathe, until they told of leaving the woods after
the killing.
After dinner, word was brought that Jacques had returned with
two peasants from Montagnac. They wanted exact directions as to
where the hunters had left the animal. Roland rose, intending to
go to them, but Madame de Montrevel, who could never see enough
of her son, turned to the messenger and said: "Bring these worthy
men in here. It is not necessary to disturb M. Roland for that."
Five minutes later the two peasants entered, twirling their hats
in their hands.
"My sons," said Roland, "I want you to fetch the boar we killed
in the forest of Seillon."
"That can be done," said one of the peasants, consulting his
companion with a look.
"Yes, it can be done," answered the other.
"Don't be alarmed," said Roland. "You shall lose nothing by your
trouble."
"Oh! we're not," interrupted one of the peasants. "We know you,
Monsieur de Montrevel."
"Yes," answered the other, "we know that, like your father, you're
not in the habit of making people work for nothing. Oh! if all
the aristocrats had been like you, Monsieur Louis, there wouldn't
have been any revolution."
"Of course not," said the other, who seemed to have come solely
to echo affirmatively what his companion said.
"It remains to be seen now where the animal is," said the first
peasant.
"Yes," repeated the second, "remains to be seen where it is."
"Oh! it won't be hard to find."
"So much the better," interjected the peasant.
"Do you know the pavilion in the forest?"
"Which one?"
"Yes, which one?"
"The one that belongs to the Chartreuse of Seillon."
The peasants looked at each other.
"Well, you'll find it some twenty feet distant from the front
on the way to Genoud."
The peasants looked at each other once more.
"Hum!" grunted the first one.
"Hum!" repeated the other, faithful echo of his companion.
"Well, what does this 'hum' mean?" demanded Roland.
"Confound it."
"Come, explain yourselves. What's the matter?"
"The matter is that we'd rather that it was the other end of the
forest."
"But why the other end?" retorted Roland, impatiently; "it's
nine miles from here to the other end, and barely three from here
to where we left the boar."
"Yes," said the first peasant, "but just where the boar lies--"
And he paused and scratched his head.
"Exactly; that's what," added the other.
"Just what?"
"It's a little too near the Chartreuse."
"Not the Chartreuse; I said the pavilion."
"It's all the same. You know, Monsieur Louis, that there is an
underground passage leading from the pavilion to the Chartreuse."
"Oh, yes, there is one, that's sure," added the other.
"But," exclaimed Roland, "what has this underground passage got
to do with our boar?"
"This much, that the beast's in a bad place, that's all."
"Oh, yes! a bad place," repeated the other peasant.
"Come, now, explain yourselves, you rascals," said Roland, who
was growing angry, while his mother seemed uneasy, and Amélie
visibly turned pale.
"Beg pardon, Monsieur Louis," answered the peasant; "we are not
rascals; we're God-fearing men, that's all."
"By thunder," cried Roland, "I'm a God-fearing man myself. What
of that?"
"Well, we don't care to have any dealings with the devil."
"No, no, no," asserted the second peasant.
"A man can match a man if he's of his own kind," continued the
first peasant.
"Sometimes two," said the second, who was built like a Hercules.
"But with ghostly beings phantoms, spectres--no thank you," continued
the first peasant.
"No, thank you," repeated the other.
"Oh, mother, sister," queried Roland, addressing the two women,
"in Heaven's name, do you understand anything of what these two
fools are saying?"
"Fools," repeated the first peasant; "well, possibly. But it's
not the less true that Pierre Marey had his neck twisted just for
looking over the wall. True, it was of a Saturday--the devil's
sabbath."
"And they couldn't straighten it out," affirmed the second peasant,
"so they had to bury him with his face turned round looking the
other way.
"Oh!" exclaimed Sir John, "this is growing interesting. I'm very
fond of ghost stories."
"That's more than sister Amélie is it seems," cried Edouard.
"What do you mean?"
"Just see how pale she's grown, brother Roland."
"Yes, indeed," said Sir John; "mademoiselle looks as if she were
going to faint."
"I? Not at all," exclaimed Amélie, wiping the perspiration from
her forehead; "only don't you think it seems a little warm here,
mother?"
"No," answered Madame de Montrevel.
"Still," insisted Amélie, "if it would not annoy you, I should
like to open the window."
"Do so, my child."
Amélie rose hastily to profit by this permission, and went with
tottering steps to a window opening upon the garden. After it
was opened, she stood leaning against the sill, half-hidden by
the curtains.
"Ah!" she said, "I can breathe here."
Sir John rose to offer her his smelling-salts, but Amélie declined
hastily: "No, no, my lord. Thank you, but I am better now."
"Come, come," said Roland, "don't bother about that; it's our
boar."
"Well, Monsieur Louis, we will fetch your boar tomorrow."
"That's it," said the second peasant, "to-morrow morning, when
it's light."
"But to go there at night--"
"Oh! to go there at night--"
The peasant looked at his comrade and both shook their heads.
"It can't be done at night."
"Cowards."
"Monsieur Louis, a man's not a coward because he's afraid."
"No, indeed; that's not being a coward," replied the other.
"Ah!" said Roland, "I wish some stronger minded men than you would
face me with that argument; that a man is not a coward because
he's afraid!"
"Well, it's according to what he's afraid of, Monsieur Louis.
Give me a good sickle and a good cudgel, and I'm not afraid of
a wolf; give me a good gun and I'm not afraid of any man, even
if I knew he's waiting to murder me."
"Yes," said Edouard, "but you're afraid of a ghost, even when
it's only the ghost of a monk."
"Little Master Edouard," said the peasant, "leave your brother to
do the talking; you're not old enough to jest about such things--"
"No," added the other peasant, "wait till your beard is grown,
my little gentleman."
"I haven't any beard," retorted Edouard, starting up, "but just
the same if I was strong enough to carry the boar, I'd go fetch
it myself either by day or night."
"Much good may it do you, my young gentleman. But neither my comrade
nor myself would go, even for a whole louis."
"Nor for two?" said Roland, wishing to corner them.
"Nor for two, nor four, nor ten, Monsieur de Montrevel. Ten louis
are good, but what could I do with them if my neck was broken?"
"Yes, twisted like Pierre Marey's," said the other peasant.
"Ten louis wouldn't feed my wife and children for the rest of
my life, would they?"
"And besides, when you say ten louis," interrupted the second
peasant, "you mean really five, because I'd get five, too."
"So the pavilion is haunted by ghosts, is it?" asked Roland.
"I didn't say the pavilion--I'm not sure about the pavilion--but
in the Chartreuse--"
"In the Chartreuse, are you sure?"
"Oh! there, certainly."
"Have you seen them?"
"I haven't; but some folks have."
"Has your comrade?" asked the young officer, turning to the second
peasant.
"I haven't seen them; but I did see flames, and Claude Philippon
heard chains."
"Ah! so they have flames and chains?" said Roland.
"Yes," replied the first peasant, "for I have seen the flames
myself."
"And Claude Philippon on heard the chains," repeated the other.
"Very good, my friends, very good," replied Roland, sneering;
"so you won't go there to-night at any price?"
"Not at any price."
"Not for all the gold in the world."
"And you'll go to-morrow when it's light?"
"Oh! Monsieur Louis, before you're up the boar will be here."
"Before you're up," said Echo.
"All right," said Roland. "Come back to me the day after tomorrow."
"Willingly, Monsieur Louis. What do you want us to do?"
"Never mind; just come."
"Oh! we'll come."
"That means that the moment you say, 'Come,' you can count upon
us, Monsieur Louis."
"Well, then I'll have some information for you."
"What about?"
"The ghosts."
Amélie gave a stifled cry; Madame de Montrevel alone heard it.
Louis dismissed the two peasants, and they jostled each other
at the door in their efforts to go through together.
Nothing more was said that evening about the Chartreuse or the
pavilion, nor of its supernatural tenants, spectres or phantoms
who haunted them.
