“What is it?” asked Saint-Quentin, seeing that she was reading the directions on a signpost.
“Look,” she said.
“There’s no need to look. It’s straight on. I looked it up on our map.”
“Look,” she repeated. “Chagny. A mile and a half.”
“Quite so. It’s the village of our château of yesterday. Only to get to it we made a shortcut through the woods.”
“Chagny. A mile and a half. Château de Roborey.”
She appeared to be troubled and in a low voice she murmured again:
“Roborey—Roborey.”
“Doubtless that’s the proper name of the château,” hazarded Saint-Quentin. “What difference can it make to you?”
“None—none.”
“But you look as if it made no end of a difference.”
“No. It’s just a coincidence.”
“In what way?”
“With regard to the name of Roborey—”
“Well?”
“Well, it’s a word which was impressed on my memory … a word which was uttered in circumstances—”
“What circumstances, Dorothy?”
She explained slowly with a thoughtful air:
“Think a minute, Saint-Quentin. I told you that my father died of his wounds, at the beginning of the war, in a hospital near Chartres. I had been summoned; but I did not arrive in time. … But two wounded men, who occupied the beds next to his in the ward, told me that during his last hours he never stopped repeating the same word again and again: ‘Roborey … Roborey.’ It came like a litany, unceasingly, and as if it weighed on his mind. Even when he was dying he still uttered the word: ‘Roborey … Roborey.’ ”
“Yes,” said Saint-Quentin. “I remember. … You did tell me about it.”
“Ever since then I have been asking myself what it meant and by what memory my poor father was obsessed at the time of his death. It was, apparently, more than an obsession … it was a terror … a dread. Why? I have never been able to find the explanation of it. So now you understand, Saint-Quentin, on seeing this name … written there, staring me in the face … on learning that there was a château of that name. …”
Saint-Quentin was frightened:
“You never mean to go there, do you?”
“Why not?”
“It’s madness, Dorothy!”
The young girl was silent, considering. But Saint-Quentin felt sure that she had not abandoned this unprecedented design. He was seeking for arguments to dissuade her when Castor and Pollux came running up:
“Three caravans are coming along!”
They issued on the instant, one after the other in single file, from a sunken lane, which opened on to the crossroads, and took the road to Roborey. They were an Aunt Sally, a Rifle-Range, and a Tortoise Merry-go-round. As he passed in front of Dorothy and Saint-Quentin, one of the men of the Rifle-Range called to them:
“Are you coming along too?”
“Where to?” said Dorothy.
“To the château. There’s a village fête in the grounds. Shall I keep a pitch for you?”
“Right. And thanks very much,” replied the young girl.
The caravans went on their way.
“What’s the matter, Saint-Quentin?” said Dorothy.
He was looking paler than usual.
“What’s the matter with you?” she repeated. “Your lips are twitching and you are turning green!”
He stammered:
“The p-p-police!”
From the same sunken lane two horsemen came into the crossroads, they rode on in front of the little party.
“You see,” said Dorothy, smiling, “they’re not taking any notice of us.”
“No; but they’re going to the château.”
“Of course they are. There’s a fête there; and two policemen have to be present.”
“Always supposing that they haven’t discovered the disappearance of the earrings and telephoned to the nearest police-station,” he groaned.
“It isn’t likely. The lady will only discover it tonight, when she dresses for dinner.”
“All the same, don’t let’s go there,” implored the unhappy stripling. “It’s simply walking into the trap. … Besides, there’s that man … the man in the hole.”
“Oh, he dug his own grave,” she said and laughed.
“Suppose he’s there. … Suppose he recognizes me?”
“You were disguised. All they could do would be to arrest the scarecrow in the tall hat!”
“And suppose they’ve already laid an information against me? If they searched us they’d find the earrings.”
“Drop them in some bushes in the park when we get there. I’ll tell the people of the château their fortunes; and thanks to me, the lady will recover her earrings. Our fortunes are made.”
“But if by any chance—”
“Rubbish! It would amuse me to go and see what is going on at the château which is named Roborey. So I’m going.”
“Yes; but I’m afraid … afraid for you as well.”
“Then stay away.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“We’ll chance it!” he said, and cracked his whip.
II
Dorothy’s Circus
The château, situated at no great distance from Domfront, in the most rugged district of the picturesque department of the Orne, only received the name of Roborey in the course of the eighteenth century. Earlier it took its name of the Château de Chagny from the village which was grouped round it. The village green is in fact only a prolongation of the courtyard of the château. When the iron gates are open the two form an esplanade, constructed over the ancient moat, from which one descends on the right and left by steep slopes. The inner courtyard, circular and enclosed by two battlemented walls which run to the buildings of the château, is adorned by a fine old fountain of dolphins and sirens and a sundial set up on a rockery in the worst taste.
Dorothy’s Circus passed through the village, preceded by its band, that is to say that Castor and Pollux did their best to wreck their lungs in the effort to extract the largest possible number of false notes from two trumpets. Saint-Quentin had arrayed himself in a black satin doublet and carried over his shoulder the trident which so awes wild beasts, and a placard which announced that the performance would take place at three o’clock.
Dorothy, standing upright on the roof of the caravan, directed One-eyed Magpie with four reins, wearing the majestic air of one driving a royal coach.
Already a dozen vehicles stood on the esplanade; and round them the showmen were busily setting up their canvas tents and swings and
