CHAPTER XLVI
AN INSPIRATION
We have seen that during the pursuit of the preceding night Roland
could have arrested one or two of the men he was pursuing. He
could now do the same with M. de Valensolle, who was probably,
like Roland himself, taking a day's rest after a night of great
fatigue.
To do it he had only to write a line to the captain of gendarmes,
or to the colonel of dragoons, who had assisted him during that
ineffectual search at Seillon. Their honor was concerned in the
affair. They could instantly surprise M. de Valensolle in bed,
and at the cost of two pistol shots--two men killed or wounded--he
would be taken.
But M. de Valensolle's arrest would give warning to the rest of
the band, who would instantly put themselves in safety beyond
the frontier. It was better, therefore, to keep to his first
idea; to go slowly, to follow the different trails which must
converge to one centre, and, at the risk of a general engagement,
throw a net over the whole company.
To do that, M. de Valensolle must not be arrested. It was better
to follow him on his pretended journey to Geneva, which was probably
but a blind to foil investigation. It was therefore agreed that
Roland, whose disguise, however good, was liable to be penetrated,
should remain at the lodge, and Michel and Jacques should head
off the game. In all probabilities, M. de Valensolle would not
set out from the inn before nightfall.
Roland made inquiries of Michel about the life his sister had
led since her mother's departure. He learned that she had never
once left the grounds during that time. Her habits were still the
same, except for the walks and visits she had made with Madame
de Montrevel.
She rose at seven or eight in the morning, sketched or practiced
her music till breakfast, and afterward read or employed herself
at some kind of embroidery, or took advantage of the sunshine to
go out with Charlotte to the river. Sometimes she bade Michel
unfasten the little boat, and then, well wrapped in furs, would
row up the Reissouse as far as Montagnac or down to Saint-Just.
During these trips she spoke to no one. Then she dined. After
dinner, she retired to her bedroom and did not appear again.
By half-past six, therefore, Michel and Jacques could decamp
without arousing any suspicion as to their where-about; and,
accordingly, at that hour they took their blouses, game-bags
and guns, and started. Roland had given them their instructions.
They were to follow the pacing horse until they had ascertained
his destination, or until they had lost all trace of him. Michel
was to lie in wait opposite the inn of the Belle-Alliance; Jacques
was to station himself outside of Bourg, just where the main road
divides into three branches, one going to Saint-Amour, another
to Saint-Claude, and the third to Nantua. This last was at the
same time the highroad to Geneva. It was evident that unless M.
de Valensolle returned upon his steps, which was not probable,
he would take one or another of these three roads.
The father started in one direction, the son in another. Michel
went toward the town by the road to Pont-d'Ain, passing the church
of Brou. Jacques crossed the Reissouse, followed the right bank of
the little river, and found himself, after walking a few hundred
yards beyond the town, at the sharp angle made by the parting of
the three roads. Father and son reached their separate posts
at about the same time.
At this particular moment, that is to say, about seven o'clock, the
stillness and solitude surrounding the Château des Noires-Fontaines
was broken by the arrival of a post-chaise, which stopped before
the iron gate. A servant in livery got off the box and pulled
the chain of the bell.
It was Michel's business to open the gate, but Michel was away,
as we know. Amélie and Charlotte probably counted on him, for
the bell was rung three times before any one answered it. At
last the maid appeared at the head of the stairs calling Michel.
Michel made no reply. Finally, protected by the locked gates,
Charlotte ventured to approach them. In spite of the obscurity
she recognized the servant.
"Ah, is it you, Monsieur James?" she cried, somewhat reassured.
James was Sir John's confidential valet.
"Yes, mademoiselle, it is I, or rather it is Sir John."
The carriage door opened at this moment, and his master's voice
was heard saying: "Mademoiselle Charlotte, will you tell your
mistress that I have just arrived from Paris, that I have called
to leave my card, and to ask permission, not to be received this
evening, but to be allowed to call to-morrow, if she will grant
me that favor. Ask her at what hour I shall least inconvenience
her."
Mademoiselle Charlotte had a high opinion of Sir John, consequently
she acquitted herself of the commission with the utmost alacrity.
Five minutes later she returned to announce that Sir John would
be received the next day between twelve and one o'clock.
Roland knew what the Englishman had come for. In his mind the
marriage was an accomplished fact, and he regarded Sir John already
as his brother-in-law. He hesitated a moment as to whether he
should or should not make himself known to Sir John, and tell
his friend about his projects; but he reflected that Sir John
was not a man to let him work them out alone. He, too, had a
revenge to take on the Companions of Jehu; he would certainly
insist on taking part in the expedition, whatever it was. And that
expedition, however it might result, was certain to be dangerous,
and another disaster might befall him. Roland's luck, as Roland
well knew, did not extend to his friends. Sir John, grievously
wounded, had barely escaped with his life, and the colonel of
dragoons had been killed outright. He therefore allowed Sir John
to drive away without giving any sign of his own proximity.
As for Charlotte, she did not seem in the least surprised that
Michel was not there to open the gate. Evidently they were accustomed
to his absences, and they did not disturb either the mistress
or the maid. For the rest, Roland knew his sister well enough
to understand this indifference. Amélie, feeble under a moral
suffering wholly unsuspected by Roland, who attributed to simple
nervous crises the fluctuations of his sister's character, Amélie
was strong and brave before real danger. That was no doubt why
she felt no fear about remaining with Charlotte alone in the
lonely house, without other protection than that afforded by the
two gardeners, who spent their nights in poaching.
As for ourselves, we know that Michel and his son did really
serve their mistress' desire more in absenting themselves thus
frequently from the château than in staying [near] it. Their
absence left the coast clear for Morgan, [and that] was all Amélie
really cared about.
That evening and part of the night went by without bringing Roland
any news. He tried to sleep, but succeeded ill. He fancied every
minute that he heard some one at the door. The day was just beginning
to glimmer through the shutters when the door did actually open.
Michel and Jacques were returning, and this is what had happened
to them:
They had each gone to his post, Michel at the inn door, Jacques
to the junction of the roads. Twenty paces from the door Michel
had met Pierre, and three words sufficed to show him that M. de
Valensolle was still at the inn. The latter had announced that,
as he had a long journey before him, he would let his horse rest
and would not start until nightfall. Pierre did not doubt that
he was going to Geneva, as he said.
Michel proposed a glass of wine to Pierre. Pierre accepted. After
that, Michel was sure of being warned of any change. Pierre was
the hostler, and nothing could be done in the stable without
his knowledge. A lad attached to the inn promised to convey the
news to Michel, in return for which Michel gave him three charges
of powder with which to make firecrackers.
At midnight the traveller had not yet started; they had drunk
four bottles of wine, but Michel had partaken sparingly of them.
He had found means to pour three of the four bottles into Pierre's
glass, where they did not long remain. At midnight the wine-shop
closed, and Michel having nowhere to go for the four hours that
still remained until daybreak, Pierre offered him a bed of straw in
the stable. Michel accepted. The two friends went back arm-in-arm;
Pierre staggering, Michel pretending to stagger.
At three o'clock in the morning the servant of the hotel awakened
Michel. The traveller wanted his horse. Michel, pretending that
he must be off to see to his game, also rose. His toilet was not
long in making; he had only to shake the straw from his hair,
game-bag, and blouse, after which he took leave of his friend
Pierre and hid himself at the corner of the street.
Fifteen minutes later the gate opened and a man rode out on a
pacing horse. It was M. de Valensolle. He took the street that
led to the Geneva road. Michel followed without concealment,
whistling a hunting air. Only, as Michel could not run for fear
of attracting the rider's notice, he lost sight of him before
long. But Jacques was there, thought he, waiting at the fork of
the roads. Yes, Jacques had been there, but he had been there
for over six hours of a winter's night, in five degrees of cold.
Had he the courage to stand six hours in the snow and kick his
soles against a tree?
Thinking thus, Michel took a short cut through the streets and
lanes, running at full speed; but horse and rider, in spite of
his haste, had gone faster than he. He reached the fork of the
roads. All was silent and solitary. The snow, trampled the day
before, a Sunday, no longer showed distinct tracks. The steps
of the horse were lost in the mud of the road. Nor did he waste
further time in vain searching. He wondered what had become of
Jacques; but his poacher's eye soon told him.
Jacques had stood on watch at the foot of a tree. For how long?
It was difficult to say, but long enough to become very cold.
The snow was well beaten down by his heavy hunting-boots. He
had evidently tried to keep warm by walking up and down. Then
suddenly he must have remembered a little mud hut on the other
side of the road, such as the road-menders build as a shelter
against the rain. He had gone down the ditch and crossed the
road. His trail, lost for a moment in the centre of the road, was
visible on the snow at either side. This trail formed a diagonal
line, making straight for the hut. It was evidently in the hut
that Jacques had passed the night. But when had he left it? And
why had he left it? The first question was unanswerable. But to
the most inexperienced scout the second was plain enough. He had
left it to follow M. de Valensolle. The same footsteps that had
approached the hut were to be seen going, as they left it, in
the direction of Ceyzeriat.
The traveller had really taken the road to Geneva. Jacques' footsteps
showed it plainly. The stride was long, like that of a man running,
and he had followed the road behind the trees, evidently to conceal
himself from the rider. At a wretched tavern, one of those with
the legend inscribed over its door: "Here we give food and drink,
equestrian and pedestrian lodgings," the trail stopped. It was
clear that the rider had stopped before this inn, for Jacques
had also paused behind a tree some twenty feet distant, where
the snow was-trampled. Then, probably after the gate had closed
on horse and rider, Jacques had left his tree, crossed the road,
this time with hesitation, his short steps leading, not to the
door, but to the window.
Michel put his own feet in his son's footprints and reached the
window. Through the chinks in the shutter the interior, when
lighted, could be seen; but now all was dark, and Michel could see
nothing. But Jacques had certainly looked through the window; no
doubt it was then lighted, and he had been able to see something.
Where had he gone on leaving the window? Round the house, close
to the wall. This excursion was easy to follow. The snow was
virgin. As for his purpose in going round the house that was
not difficult to make out. Jacques, like a lad of sense, had
concluded that the traveller had not left a good hotel, saying
that he was going to Geneva, to put up at a miserable tavern
a mile from the town.
He must have ridden through the yard and gone out by some other
exit. Jacques had, therefore, skirted the house in the hope of
recovering the trail, if not of the horse, at least of the rider
on the other side.
Sure enough, from a small gate in the rear, opening toward the
forest that extends from Coterz to Ceyzeriat, footsteps could
be seen advancing in a straight line to the edge of the woods.
They were those of a man elegantly shod, wearing spurs on his
heels, for the spurs had left their marks upon the snow.
Jacques had not hesitated to follow these marks. The track of
his heavy shoes could be seen near the prints of the delicate
boot--the large foot of the peasant near the slender foot of
the city man.
It was now five o'clock. Day was breaking, and Michel resolved
to go no further. Jacques was on the trail, and the young poacher
was worth as much as the old one. Michel circled the open as if
he were returning from Ceyzeriat, resolving to enter the inn
and wait for Jacques' return; certain that his son would know he
had followed him and had stopped short at this isolated house.
Michel knocked on the window-shutter and was soon admitted. He
knew the landlord, who was well accustomed to his nocturnal habits,
asked for a bottle, complaining bitterly of his poor luck, and
asked permission to wait for his son, who was in the woods on
the other side, and who, he hoped, had been more successful in
tracking the game. It goes without saying that this permission
was readily accorded. Michel opened the window-shutters, in order
to look out on the road.
It was not long before some one knocked on the glass. It was Jacques.
His father called him.
Jacques had been as unfortunate as his father. No game; and he
was frozen. An armful of wood was thrown on the fire and a second
bottle of wine was brought. Jacques warmed himself and drank.
Then, as it was necessary that the two poachers should be back
at the château before daylight, that their absence might not be
noticed, Michel paid for the wine and the wood, and the pair
departed.
Neither had said one word before the landlord of the subject
that filled their minds. He was not to suspect that they were on
other trail than that of game. But no sooner were they outside
of the house than Michel drew close to his son. Jacques recounted
how he had followed the tracks until they had reached a crossroad
in the forest. There a man, armed with a gun, had suddenly appeared
and asked him what he was doing in the forest at that hour. Jacques
replied that he was watching for game. "Then go further," said
the man; "don't you see that this place is taken?"
Jacques admitted the justice of this claim, and went on about a
hundred rods further, but, just as he was slanting to the left
to return to the crossroad, another man, armed like the first, had
suddenly started up with the same inopportune question. Jacques
gave him the same answer: "Watching for game." The man had then
pointed to the edge of the woods, saying in a threatening manner:
"If I have any advice to give you, my young friend, it is to go
over there. It will be safer for you than here."
Jacques had taken this advice, or at least had pretended to take
it, for as soon as he had reached the edge of the woods he had
crept along in the ditch, until, convinced that it would be
impossible to recover M. de Valensolle's track, he had struck
into the open, and returned by fields and the highroad to the
tavern, where he hoped to, and in fact did, find his father.
They reached the Château des Noires-Fontaines, as we have seen,
just as day was breaking.
All that we have related was repeated to Roland with a multiplicity
of detail which we must omit, and convinced the young officer
that the two armed men, who had warned off Jacques, were not
poachers as they seemed, but Companions of Jehu. But where was
their haunt located?
There was no deserted convent, no ruin, in that direction.
Suddenly Roland clapped his hand to his head. "Idiot that I am!"
he cried, "why did I never think of that?"
A smile of triumph crossed his lips, and addressing the two men,
who were mortified at having brought him no more definite news,
he cried: "My lads, I know all I want to know. Go to bed and
sleep sound; my word, you deserve to!" He himself, setting the
example, slept like a man whose brain has solved a problem of
the utmost importance which has long harassed it.
The thought had just flashed through his mind that the Companions
of Jehu had abandoned the Chartreuse of Seillon for the grottoes
of Ceyzeriat; and at the same time he recalled the subterranean
passage leading from these grottoes to the church of Brou.
