woman had brought him a pipe, and, although the habit was foreign to him as a rule, he had lighted it and found the smoking somewhat soothing. Ruefully he passed his hand across his bandaged brow, and in pondering over all that had taken place since yesternight at Boisvert, his cheeks grew flushed at once with anger and with shame.
'To have been so duped!'
And now—his mind growing clearer as he recovered in vigour—it occurred to him that by to-morrow it would be too late to give pursuit. Once she crossed the Sambre at Liege, or elsewhere, who could tell him by what road she would elect to continue her journey? He had not sufficient men at his disposal to send out parties along each of the possible roads. That her ultimate destination was Treves he knew. But once there she was beyond his reach, at safety from the talons of the French Republic.
He sat on and thought, what time his brows came closer together and his teeth fastened viciously upon the stem of the pipe. By the table sat the woman, knitting industriously, and ever and anon glancing inquiry at her stern, thoughtful guest, and the click of her needles was the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the room. Outside the wind was wailing like the damned, and the rain which had recommenced with new vigour, rattled noisily upon the panes.
Suddenly above the din of the elements a shout sounded in the night. The Deputy raised his head, and glanced towards the woman. A moment later they heard the gate creak, and steps upon the path that led to the cottage door.
'Your husband?' inquired La Boulaye.
'No, monsieur. He has gone to Liege, and will not return until to-morrow. I do not know who it can be.'
There was alarm on her face, which La Boulaye now set himself to allay.
'At least you are well protected, Citoyenne. My men are close at hand, and we can summon them if there be the need.'
Reassured she rose, and at the same moment a knock sounded on the door. She went to open it, and from his seat by the hearth La Boulaye heard a gentle, mincing voice that was oddly familiar to him.
'Madame,' it said, 'we are two poor, lost wayfarers, and we crave shelter for the night. We will pay you handsomely.'
'I am desolated that I have no room, Messieur,' she answered, with courteous firmness.
'Pardi!' interpolated another voice. 'We need no room. A bundle of straw and a corner is all we seek. Of your charity, Madame, is this a night on which to leave a dog out of doors?'
A light of recollection leaped suddenly to La Boulaye's eyes, and with a sudden gasp he stooped to the hearth.
'But I cannot, Messieurs,' the woman was saying, when the second voice interrupted her.
'I see your husband by the fire, Madame. Let us hear what he has to say.'
The woman coloured to the roots of her hair. She stepped back a pace, and was about to answer them when, chancing to glance in La Boulaye's direction, she paused. He had risen, and was standing with his back to the fire. There was a black smudge across his face, which seemed to act as a mask, and his dark eyes glowed with an intensity of meaning which arrested her attention, and silenced the answer which was rising to her lips.
In the brief pause the new-comers had crossed the threshold, and stood within the rustic chamber. The first of these was he whose gentle voice La Boulaye had recognised—old M. des Cadoux, the friend of the Marquis de Bellecour. His companion, to the Deputy's vast surprise, was none other than the bearded courier who had that morning delivered him at Boisvert the letter from Robespierre. What did these two together, and upon such manifest terms of equality? That, it should be his business to discover.
'Come in, Messieurs,' he bade them, assuming the role of host. 'We are unused to strangers, and Mathilde there is timid of robbers. Draw near the fire and dry yourselves. We will do the best we can for you. We are poor people, Messieurs; very poor.'
'I have already said that we will pay you handsomely my friend,' quoth Des Cadoux, coming forward with his companion. 'Do your best for us and you shall not regret it. Have you aught to eat in the house?'
The woman was standing by the wall, her face expressing bewilderment and suspicion. Suspicious she was, yet that glance of La Boulaye's had ruled her strangely, and she was content to now await developments.
'We will see what we can do,' answered La Boulaye, as he made room for them by the hearth. 'Come, Mathilde, let us try what the larder will yield.'
'I am afraid that Madame still mistrusts us,' deplored Des Cadoux.
La Boulaye laughed for answer as he gently but firmly drew her towards the door leading to the interior of the house. He held it for her to pass, what time his eyes were set in an intent but puzzled glance upon the courier. There was something about the man that was not wholly strange to La Boulaye. That morning, when he had spoken in the gruff accents of one of the rabble, no suspicion had entered the Deputy's mind that he was other than he seemed, for all that he now recalled how Tardivet had found the fellow's patriotism a little too patriotic. Now that he spoke in the voice that was naturally usual to him, it seemed to La Boulaye that it contained a note that he had heard before.
Still puzzled, he passed out of the room to be questioned sharply by the woman of the house touching his motives for passing himself off as her husband and inviting the new-comers to enter.
'I promise you their stay will be a very brief one,' he answered. 'I have suspicions to verify the ends to serve, as you shall see. Will you do me the favour to go out by the back and call my men? Tell the corporal to make his way to the front of the house, and to hold himself in readiness to enter the moment I call him.'
'What are you about to do?' she asked and the face, as he saw it by the light of the candle she held, wore an expression of sullen disapproval.
He reassured her that there would be no bloodshed, and suggested that the men were dangerous characters whom it might be ill for her to entertain. And so at last he won his way, and she went to do his errand, whilst he reentered the kitchen.
He found Des Cadoux by the fire, intent upon drying as much of himself as possible. The younger man had seized upon the bottle of brandy that had been left on the table, and was in the act of filling himself a second glass. Nothing could be further from the mind of either than a suspicion of the identity of this rustically-clad and grimy-faced fellow.
'Mathilde will be here in a moment,' said Caron deferentially. 'She is seeking something for you.'
Had he told them precisely what she was seeking they had been, possibly, less at ease.
'Let her hasten,' cried the courier, 'for I am famished.'
'Have patience, Anatole,' murmured the ever-gentle Cadoux. 'The good woman did not expect us.'
Anatole! The name buzzed through Caron's brain. To whom did it belong? He knew of someone who bore it. Yet question himself though he might, he could at the moment find no answer. And then the courier created a diversion by addressing him.
'Fill yourself a glass, mon bonhomme,' said he. 'I have a toast for you.'
'For me, Monsieur,' cried La Boulaye, with surprised humility. 'It were too great an honour.'
'Do as you are bidden, man,' returned this very peremptory courier. 'There; now let us see how your favour runs. Cry 'Long Live the King!''
Holding the brandy-glass, which the man had forced upon him, La Boulaye eyed him whimsically for a second.
'There is no toast I would more gladly drink,' said he at last, 'if I considered it availing. But—alas—you propose it over-late.'
'Diable! What may you mean?'
'Why, that since the King is dead, it shall profit us little to cry, 'Long Live the King!''
'The King, Monsieur, never dies,' said Cadoux sententiously.
'Since you put it so, Monsieur,' answered La Boulaye, as if convinced, 'I'll honour the toast.' And with the cry they asked of him he drained his glass.
'And so, my honest fellow,' said Des Cadoux, producing his eternal snuff-box, 'it seems that you are a Royalist. We did but test you with that toast, my friend.'
'What should a poor fellow know of politics, Messieurs?' he deprecated. 'These are odd times. I doubt me
