Adèle had picked up her shawl, and equally unceremoniously gone as far as the door, when Fleurette called her shyly back.
“Adèle!”
The girl turned without speaking, her hand on the door which she was holding open.
“If you are going to M’sieur Colombe, could you—”
Fleurette stammered, “I mean, would you tell Monsieur Amédé, that—that I am here, and perhaps—”
“Why don’t you come along with me?” Adèle retorted dryly, “and tell him what you want.”
Of course Fleurette could not tell her that she did not want Monsieur and Madame Colombe to know that she had something important to say to M’sieu’ Amédé. So all she said was: “Oh, Adèle, please!”
Adèle retorted with a shrug of the shoulders and an ugly little sneer:
“You don’t want his papa and mama to know, I suppose.”
Fleurette whispered: “No!”
“Very well!” was all that Adèle said in reply. “I’ll tell him.”
And in her usual, furtive, noiseless way she went out of the house, closing the door behind her.
X
Fleurette remained in darkness, silent, motionless as a little mouse, listening for the well-known footstep which in a few minutes, she knew, would be at the door. It had perhaps been a rash thing thus to give herself away to Adèle, but the girl was uncommunicative and had never been known to gossip. Between two risks Fleurette had chosen the lesser one. If Bibi—as she feared—was going back to Lou Mas, there would be no chance whatever of keeping the secret of Madame’s casket and valuables from him, and what Bibi’s attitude would be towards them, Fleurette could not guess. It was the great Unknown. For Madame’s sake and Mademoiselle’s she would not risk it.
Like an inspiration the thought of M’sieur Amédé had occurred to her; of Amédé who, when she was a little girl, and he a growing lad, would always take the blame on himself and know how to shield her when they had got into mischief together. She felt now, especially since this afternoon, that she could trust Amédé in a way that she had never trusted anyone else. Not even Bibi. Unfortunately Adèle had to be made a part confidant of the purpose: but after all what did Adèle know? She couldn’t know anything about the casket and Madame’s valuables: and if she did sneer, or even talk to her aunt about this message sent to M’sieu’ Amédé through her, well! Fleurette was prepared to face the gossip—so long as her secret was safe.
She was counting the minutes—the seconds—Five minutes for Adèle to go to the Rue Haute: three and a half for Amédé to run along here—she did not doubt but that he would run. Then there would be the intervening time whilst Adèle sought for an opportunity to speak to him alone. But oh! how Time dragged on leaden-footed! Nearly fifteen minutes must have gone by since Adèle went away. The widow Tronchet was still busy in the kitchen, rattling her pots and pans: but any moment she might finish and perhaps come in here and find Fleurette still waiting. Then there would be more acrimonious remarks, questions, arguments—Had Fleurette known anything about nerves, she would have said that hers were irritated to snapping-point; but there was little talk of nerves in that year, 1794, and none in this remote corner of Dauphiné.
Fleurette found it very difficult even to sit still. Would Amédé never come? All sorts of possibilities occurred to her, bringing her to the point of screaming with impatience. Perhaps he was from home, or working in the shop under his father’s eye. Perhaps the soldiers had called at the épicerie and taken him away, and Fleurette would never see him again—Oh! if only time would stand still until Amédé came!
Then at last, when she was on the point of bursting into tears with disappointment, she heard the quick, familiar step. Amédé!!! As noiselessly as possible she opened the door and slipped out. There sure enough was Amédé coming along. Though it was very dark now, Fleurette knew it was he, because of the sound of his footsteps. Hearing hers, he came to a halt, and she ran up to him, breathless with excitement. All at once the enormity of what she had done struck terror in her heart. She, Fleurette, whose reputation had stood hitherto above all gossip, who, for three years in succession had been crowned Queen of the month of May, an honour only accorded to girls of spotless character, she had actually given an assignation to a young man—at night—far from her home and his!
And with the horror of what she had done, came an intense shyness. What would M’sieur Amédé himself think of her? Indeed she had to evoke all her fondness for Madame and all her fears for Mademoiselle before she could summon enough courage to approach him, and to place a timid little hand upon his arm. She felt it trembling at her touch, and through the silence of the night came an answering timid sigh and a whisper:
“Mam’zelle Fleurette! What can I do in your service?”
His timidity gave her courage. Gently she led him to the edge of the road where the tall poplar trees cast long, impenetrable shadows.
“M’sieur Amédé,” Fleurette began, whispering low so that chance eavesdroppers might not hear: “I don’t know what you’ll think of me. I know I have done something which everyone in the village would call reprehensible. I sent for you in secret because—because, M’sieur Amédé, there is no one in the world I could trust, as I do trust you.”
This time there came no sigh on the part of the young peasant, only a quick intaking of the breath, as if he had suddenly been dazzled by a wonderful light. His hard, rough hand crept up shyly and fastened
