"Here they come--down the hill," said Tortillard, softly.
"Your knife, lad!" said the Chouette, in a similar tone.
"Ah, Chouette," cried Tortillard, in alarm, and extending his hands to the hag, "that is too bad--to kill. No!--oh, no!"
"Your knife, I tell you!" repeated the Chouette, in an undertone, without paying the least attention to Tortillard"s supplication, and putting her shoes off hastily. "I have taken off my shoes," she added, "that I may steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark; but I can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and I will do for the other."
"No," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. There will be plenty of time to-morrow."
"What! you"re afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the Chouette, with fierce contempt.
"Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. "But you may fail in your blow and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to come to Fleur-de-Marie, who called him frequently.
"Do you hear their dog? Here they are! Your knife!--or, if not--" cried the Chouette, with a threatening air.
"Come and take it from me, then--by force," said the Schoolmaster.
"It"s all over--it"s too late," added the Chouette, after listening for a moment attentively; "they have gone by. You shall pay for that, gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice.
"A thousand francs lost by your stupidity!"
"A thousand--two thousand--perhaps three thousand gained," replied the Schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "Listen, Chouette! Do you go back to Barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet the man in mourning. Tell him that it was impossible to do anything to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. The young girl goes every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow we shall have a more secure opportunity. So to-morrow do you return and be with Barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour."
"But thou--thou?"
"Tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young girl lives. I will cook up some tale--say we have lost our road, and ask leave to pa.s.s the night at the farm in a corner of the stable. No one could refuse us that. Tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins and outs of the house. There is always money to be looked for amongst these farming people. You say the farm is situated in a lone spot; and, when once we know all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some safe friends, and the thing is done as easy--"
"Always "downy!" What a head-piece!" said the Chouette, softening. "Go on, _fourline_."
"To-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, I will complain of a pain which prevents me from walking. If they will not believe me, I"ll show them the wound which I have always had since I smashed the "loop of my darbies," and which is always painful to me. I"ll say it is a burn I had from a red-hot bar when I was a workman, and they"ll believe me.
I"ll remain at the farm part of the day, whilst Tortillard looks about him. When the evening comes on, and the little wench goes out as usual with the priest, I"ll say I"m better, and fit to go away. Tortillard and I will follow the young wench at a distance, and await your coming to us here. As she will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she sees us. We will speak to her, Tortillard and I; and, when once within reach of my arms, I will answer for the rest. She"s caught safe enough, and the thousand francs are ours. That is not all. In two or three days we can "give the office" of the farm to Barbillon and some others, and share with them if they get any "swag," as it will be me who put them on the "lay.""
"Well done, No-Eyes! No one can come up to you," said the Chouette, embracing the Schoolmaster. "Your plan is capital! Tell you what, _fourline_, when you are done up and old, you must turn consulting "prig"; you will earn as much money as a "big-wig." Come, kiss your old woman, and be off as quick as you may, for these joskins go to sleep with their poultry. I shall go to Barbillon; and to-morrow, at four o"clock, we will be at the cross-road with the "trap," unless he is nabbed for having a.s.sisted Gros-Boiteux and the Skeleton to "do for" the milk-woman"s husband in the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie. But if he can"t come, another can, for the pretended hackney-coach belongs to the man in mourning who has used it before. A quarter of an hour after we get to the cross-road, I will be here and wait for you."
"All right! Good-by till to-morrow, Chouette."
"I had nearly forgot to give the wax to Tortillard, if there is any lock to get the print of at the farm. Here, chickabiddy, do you know how to use it?" said the one-eyed wretch to Tortillard, as she gave him a piece of wax.
"Yes, yes, my father showed me how to use it. I took for him the print of the lock of the little iron chest which my master, the quack doctor, keeps in his small closet."
"Ah, that"s all right; and, that the wax may not stick, do not forget to moisten the wax after you have warmed it well in your hand."
"I know all about it," replied Tortillard.
"To-morrow, them, _fourline_," said the Chouette.
"To-morrow," replied the Schoolmaster.
The Chouette went towards the coach. The Schoolmaster and Tortillard quitted the hollow way, and bent their steps towards the farm, the lights which shone from the windows serving to guide them on their way.
Strange fatality, which again brought Anselm Duresnel under the same roof with his wife, who had not seen him since his condemnation to hard labour for life!
CHAPTER VII.
AN EVENING AT THE FARM.
Perhaps a more gratifying sight does not exist than the interior of a large farm-kitchen prepared for the evening meal, especially during the winter season. Its bright wood fire, the long table covered with the savoury, smoking dishes, the huge tankards of foaming beer or cider, with the happy countenances scattered round, speak of peaceful labour and healthful industry. The farm-kitchen of Bouqueval was a fine exemplification of this remark. Its immense open chimney, about six feet high and eight feet wide, resembled the yawning mouth of some huge oven.
On the hearth blazed and sparkled enormous logs of beech or oak; and from this prodigious brazier there issued forth such a body of light, as well as heat, that the large lamp suspended from the centre beam sunk into insignificance, and was rendered nearly useless. Every variety of culinary utensils, sparkling in all the brightness of the most elaborate cleanliness, and composed invariably of copper, bra.s.s, and tin, glowed in the bright radiance of the winter fire, as they stood ranged with the utmost nicety and effect on their appropriate shelves. An old-fashioned cistern of elaborately polished copper showed its bright face, polished as a mirror; and close beside stood a highly polished bread-trough and cover, composed of walnut-tree wood, rubbed by the hand of housewifery till you could see your face in it and from which issued a most tempting smell of hot bread. A long and substantial table occupied the centre of the kitchen; a tablecloth, which, though coa.r.s.e in texture, vied with the falling snow for whiteness, covered its entire length; while for each expected guest was placed an earthenware plate, brown without, but white within, and by its side a knife, fork, and spoon, l.u.s.trous as silver itself. In the midst of the table, an immense tureen of vegetable soup smoked like the crater of a volcano, and diffused its savoury vapours over a dish of ham and greens, flanked by a most formidable array of mutton, most relishly stewed with onions and potatoes. Below was placed a large joint of roast veal, followed by two great plates of winter salad, supported by a couple of baskets of apples; and a similar number of cheeses completed the arrangements of the table. Three or four stone pitchers filled with sparkling cider, and a like quant.i.ty of loaves of brown bread, equal in size to the stones of a windmill, were placed at the discretionary use of the supping party.
An old, s.h.a.ggy, black shepherd dog, almost toothless, the superannuated patriarch of all the canine tribe employed on the farm, was, by reason of his great age and long services, indulged with permission to enjoy the cheering warmth of the chimney-corner; but, using his privilege with the utmost modesty and discretion, this venerable servitor, who answered to the pastoral name of Lysander, lay quietly stretched out in a secure side-nook, his nose resting on his paws, watching with the deepest attention the various culinary preparations which preceded the supper.
The bill of fare thus presented to the reader, as the ordinary mode of living at the farm of Bouqueval, may strike some of our readers as unnecessarily sumptuous; but Madame Georges, faithfully following out the wishes of Rodolph, endeavoured by all possible means to improve the comforts of the labourers on the farm, who were always selected as being the most worthy and industrious individuals of their district. They were well paid, liberally treated, and so kindly used that to be engaged on the Bouqueval farm was the highest ambition of all the best labourers in that part of the country--an ambition which most essentially promoted the welfare and advantage of the masters they then served; for no applicant for employment at Bouqueval could obtain a favourable hearing, unless he came provided with most satisfactory testimonials from his last employer.
Thus, though on a very small scale, had Rodolph created a species of model farm, which had for its aim not only the improvement of animals and agricultural operations, but, above all, improving the nature of man himself; and this he effected by making it worth their while to be active, honest, and intelligent.
After having completed all the preparations for supper, and placed on the table a jug of wine to accompany the dessert, the farm-cook sounded the welcome tocsin, which told all that the cheering meal was prepared, and, their evening toil concluded, they might freely enjoy the delights of wholesome and temperate refreshment. Ere the sound had ceased to vibrate on the ear, a merry, joyous throng, composed of men and maidens to the number of twelve or fifteen, crowded around the table; the men had open, manly countenances, the women looked healthy and good-humoured, while the young girls belonging to the party wore the brightest glow of youth and innocence. Every face was lighted up with frank gaiety, content, and the satisfaction arising from the consciousness of having well fulfilled one"s duty. Thus happily prepared in mind and body to do justice to the excellent fare set before them, the happy party took their appointed places at table.
The upper end was occupied by an old, white-haired labourer, whose fine, bold, yet sensible expression of face, bespoke him a descendant of the ancient Gaulish mothers of the soil.
Father Chatelain (for so was this Nestor called) had worked on the farm from his early childhood. When Rodolph purchased the farm, the old servant had been strongly recommended to him, and he was forthwith raised to the rank of overlooker, and, under the orders of Madame Georges, general superintendent of all outdoor work; and unbounded, indeed, was the influence possessed by Father Chatelain by virtue of his age, his knowledge, and experience.
Every one having taken their seat, Father Chatelain, having fervently invoked a blessing, then, in pursuance of an ancient and pious custom, marked one of the loaves with the figure of a cross, and cut off a large slice as the share of the Virgin or the poor, then, pouring out a gla.s.s of wine with a similar consecration to charitable purposes, he reverently placed both bread and wine on a plate placed in the centre of the table purposely to receive them. At this moment the yard dogs barked furiously; old Lysander replied by a low growl, and, curling back his upper lip, displayed two or three still formidable fangs.
"Some person is pa.s.sing near the wall of the courtyard," observed Father Chatelain.
Scarcely had the words been uttered, than the bell of the great gate sounded.
"Who can this possibly be at so late an hour?" said the old labourer; "every one belonging to the place is in. Go and see who it is, Jean Rene."
The individual thus addressed was a stout, able-bodied young labourer on the farm, who was then busily employed blowing his scalding hot soup, with a force of lungs that aeolus himself might have envied; but, used to prompt obedience, in a moment the half-raised spoon was deposited in its place, and, half stifling a sigh of regret, he departed on his errand.
"This is the first time our good Madame Georges and Mlle. Marie have failed paying a visit to the warm chimney-corner, and looking on whilst we took our supper, for this long time," said Father Chatelain. "I am hungry as a hunter, but I shall not relish my supper half so well."
"Madame Georges is in the chamber of Mlle. Marie, who found herself somewhat indisposed on her return from escorting M. le Cure to the rectory," replied Claudine, the girl who had conducted La Goualeuse back from the rectory, and thus unconsciously frustrated the evil designs of the Chouette.
"I trust Mlle. Marie is only indisposed, not seriously ill, is she, Claudine?" inquired the old man, with almost paternal anxiety.
"Oh, dear, no, Father Chatelain! G.o.d forbid! I hope and believe our dear mademoiselle is only just a little struck with the cold of the night, and her walk perhaps fatigued her. I trust she will be quite well by to-morrow; indeed Madame Georges told me as much, and said that, if she had had any fears, she should have sent to Paris for M. David, the negro doctor, who took such care of mademoiselle when she was so ill. Well, I cannot make out how any one can endure a black doctor! For my part I should not have the slightest confidence in anything he said or did. No, no! if one must have a doctor, let it be a Christian man with a white skin; but a downright blackamoor! O saints above! why, the very sight of him by my bedside would kill me!"
"But did not this Monsieur David cure Mlle. Marie from the long illness with which she suffered when she first came here?" inquired the old man.
"Yes, Father Chatelain, he certainly did."
"Well?"