The three friends walked gayly on, admiring the dawn, which is much finer in the mountains than when seen from a window in Paris, or from the gravelled path of a garden. Claude went ahead to lead the way; and Robineau, his spirits lightened by the certainty that he would soon see his chÂteau, rubbed his hands and smiled, apparently at his thoughts. Alfred and Edouard joked their companion on the smile he had received from the Auvergnate on taking his leave of her; and, as they recalled the equivocal situation in which they had found him in the middle of the night, they put forward certain conjectures. Robineau defended himself smilingly, with an air of gratified self-esteem; then pointed to the shepherd who was ahead of them, saying:

"Hush, messieurs, I beg; you will compromise me!"

Suddenly the shepherd halted and called out to them:

"There’s the White House!"

They were on the slope of a hill, and at the point where the mountaineer had stopped, the road made a bend, disclosing a lovely valley, with vineyards and fields, and with many tall shade-giving trees which added variety to the picture.

Alfred and Edouard hastened to the shepherd’s side. They saw in the centre of the valley a pretty house, built after the modern style, having a ground floor and an upper-story with a mansard roof. A wall of considerable length, beginning at the left side of the house, enclosed the garden, which was evidently very large.

"What! is that the haunted house?" Alfred asked the shepherd. "Why, really, it is not terrifying to look at. The location is delightful; this valley is a charming spot, and if the devil has taken up his abode here, we must agree that he has excellent taste."

The shepherd made no reply, but contented himself with looking at the house with a timid expression. Robineau, who had remained behind, cried:

"I’d much rather see La Roche-Noire than all your peasants’ hovels!"

"Where is young Isaure’s house?" Edouard asked.

"Yonder, messieurs, near the White House. Don’t you see? here on your right."

"Oh, yes! A rustic house of most attractive aspect, surrounded by fine trees, and with flowers in the windows.—So that is where the little sorceress lives!—But let us go on, let us go down into the valley; we shall have a better view at close quarters."

They kept on to the foot of the hill; but the mountaineer no longer walked ahead; he remained near the travellers, and they observed that he was guiding them toward a road which, while it led through the valley, did not directly pass the White House.

"I will act as guide now," said Alfred, "for I see, my good man, that you are leading us away from the place we wish to see."

"Why, messieurs, I’m taking you by the road that leads to Saint-Amand, and you don’t need to go right by the White House."

"Worthy Claude is right," said Robineau; "for after all, messieurs, it isn’t this house, where nobody lives, that we’re going to, but my chÂteau."

"And I tell you I don’t propose to pass through this valley, close by this famous habitation, without having a good look at it.—Come, Edouard, let us go to the right."

Alfred and Edouard walked rapidly in the direction of the White House; the shepherd followed them with a hesitating step, and Robineau brought up the rear, consigning his companions to the devil.

They arrived in front of that house, which the mountaineers never mentioned without a thrill of terror. Claude halted ten paces away, having no inclination to go any nearer. Robineau remained with Claude and seated himself on the grass, saying:

"Go on, messieurs, satisfy your curiosity, although I don’t see anything very curious about the house. It was not worth while to turn aside from our road for this. Upon my word, you act like schoolboys."

Paying no heed to Robineau, Alfred and Edouard went close to the house. The ground-floor windows were closed by shutters, those on the first floor by blinds only. The young men examined everything with interest; and, when they came to the front door, where there was an iron knocker, Alfred cried:

"Parbleu! we must make sure whether there is anyone in this pretty little house."

As he spoke, he seized the knocker and was about to knock, when the shepherd, who had not lost sight of him, cried out in dismay:

"Monsieur! monsieur! don’t knock! oh! don’t do anything like that!"

"Why not, pray, my friend?" said Alfred with a laugh; "if there’s no one here, what difference does it make whether I knock or not? And if there are people here, we shall make the acquaintance of the proprietor, and he will excuse travellers for so trifling a liberty."

"No matter!" cried Robineau, "it’s most improper to knock; indeed, it’s absurd, and——"

Robineau’s sentence was interrupted by the sound of the knocker, with which Alfred was belaboring the door. At the sound the shepherd retreated even farther, in dire alarm; he evidently expected that some terrifying creature would open the door. Robineau turned pale and hummed a tune. Alfred and Edouard listened; but the blows of the knocker echoed inside the house and finally died away, unanswered.

"No one!" said Edouard.

"Let us try again," said Alfred. He knocked twice more in quick succession, louder than before; but the blows were followed by the same silence.

"You are wasting your time, you see, messieurs!" said Robineau, rising; "you might knock until to-morrow, to no purpose, as there’s no one there!"

"Or else they won’t answer," muttered the shepherd, who had drawn a little nearer.

"It’s a pity!" said Alfred; "I would have liked to see a legion of phantoms come out—just to see what sort of a face Sire de la Roche-Noire would have made."

"My face would not have changed, messieurs; I don’t believe in these old grandmothers’ tales, as you do; that is why I don’t see the need of knocking at doors when I know there’s no one inside."

"Oh! you wouldn’t have to knock like that at midnight!" said the shepherd, shaking his head. "You’d find a difference then, I tell you!"

"Well," said Alfred, "as we can’t get into the White House unless by scaling the walls, which would be a little too much after the style of the sons of Aymon or Ogier the Dane, let us try the cottage; perhaps we shall be more fortunate there."

"Oh! you won’t find anybody there either, messieurs," said Claude, "for at this time of day Isaure always drives her goats to pasture in the mountain."

"In that case," said Robineau, "it seems to me that we might dispense with knocking at every door we see."

Alfred and Edouard left their companion to confide his reflections to the shepherd. They walked toward the cottage, which was surrounded by fine trees and by small squares of ground in which flowers were cultivated with care.

"This place looks like a palace beside the hovel where we slept last night," said Alfred; "we may look upon this cottage as the chÂteau of Chadrat."

"Yes, it’s a charming spot," said Edouard, stopping to examine the rustic structure. "These beautiful trees whose shade seems to protect this modest abode—and the flowers—and the turf!—Do you know, my dear Alfred, I would gladly pass my life here!"

"Your life! oh! that is too long; but a week, with a lovely woman—I don’t say no to that.—But let us see if the mistress of this cottage corresponds with the idea I have formed of her."

The door was closed and locked. Alfred knocked, called, looked in the windows; no one appeared, but they heard on the other side of the door the barking of a dog who seemed anxious to interview the visitors.

"The house is well guarded, at all events," said Alfred.

"What’s that?" exclaimed Robineau.

"It’s Isaure’s dog," said the shepherd; "he’s a big fellow, I tell you! and I’ll bet no two men could handle him! He’s a—wait—he’s a dog of some kind of a land—what do you call it?"

"Do you mean Newfoundland?"

"Yes, monsieur, Newfoundland, that’s it."

"And how does it happen that this girl has a dog of that breed, which is so rare in this country?"

"Oh! monsieur, that’s another one of those mysterious things that proves that there’s something crooked. Isaure’s had this big dog since AndrÉ’s widow’s death; somebody asked her where she got him, and she said a traveller made her a present of him because she took him in and gave him something to eat. I ask you if it’s likely that a traveller would deprive himself of his trusty companion?"

"No, it isn’t conceivable," said Robineau, "and I begin to agree with the shepherd, that this young girl—It’s a most extraordinary thing."

"Do you know what the dog’s name is?" Edouard asked the shepherd.

"Yes, monsieur, he goes out with his mistress sometimes, and we hear her calling him ‘Vaillant’ here and ‘Vaillant’ there."

Edouard walked to the door and tapped softly, calling Vaillant. The dog at once replied, but his bark was less loud; he seemed to ask what was wanted rather than to threaten the strangers.

The two friends listened to the dog with interest, and the shepherd with attention; but Robineau, who was striding to and fro, stamping the ground angrily, cried:

"Messieurs, I don’t know whether you came to Auvergne to talk with dogs and to knock at every door.—As for myself, as I have a different object, I am going to have the honor of bidding you adieu if you don’t choose to go forward."

"Nonsense, Robineau! don’t get excited; we are coming right along. I confess that I would have liked to see this girl."

"So would I!" said Edouard.

"But since she is absent, and you don’t feel like taking another little walk into the mountains, we will go with you, reserving the right to come back without you to see the little sorceress."

"There she is! there she is!" cried the shepherd at that moment, pointing toward the mountain. The young men at once turned their eyes in that direction and saw a young girl, who was coming quickly down into the valley, driving a herd of goats before her.

Alfred and Edouard remained where they stood and followed the girl with their eyes. Her gait was light and active; sometimes she ran after her goats, again she turned to call the stragglers. When she descended a steep slope, her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, and she leaped as if in sport over deep excavations. At last she reached the valley, where they were better able to distinguish her features: her great deep-blue eyes were shaded by long black lashes, and her eyelids, often half lowered, added to the sweetness of her expression, which was at once artless and shy. Her nose was small and well shaped, her mouth, which was rather large, revealed when she smiled teeth as white as ivory; her fair hair fell in great curls over her brow, and was arranged with taste and with more care than is usual among the women of the mountains; her complexion was but slightly darkened by the sun, from which it was sheltered by a broad-brimmed straw hat. She was of medium height, but slender and graceful; her foot and hand were small and shapely. A brown skirt and a waist of the same material, with a little red and white apron, comprised her whole costume; but there was in her manner of wearing them a grace that did not at all resemble the heavy and awkward carriage of the women of Auvergne.

"She is charming!" said Alfred.

Edouard said nothing, but his eyes followed Isaure’s every movement.

"Yes," said Robineau, "she’s very pretty for a peasant."

The little goatherd approached her dwelling. Ere long she stopped in surprise and made a gesture which implied that she had just discovered the strangers. But she walked on after a moment, and came cheerily toward them. Alfred and Edouard stepped forward to meet her.

"Have you been knocking at my door, messieurs?" she asked, in a very sweet voice, with a curtsy to the travellers.

"Yes, my lovely child," Alfred replied.

"I was not mistaken! I heard Vaillant. You see, he warns me instantly when anyone comes. But you wish to step in and rest, no doubt, and have something to eat? Come, messieurs, I will let you in."

"You are too kind," said Edouard; "but we are sorry to have brought you home."

"Why so? As if I had not time enough to pasture my goats! And is it not a pleasure to be useful to travellers?"

As she spoke, the girl ran ahead to unlock the door.

"My friend, she is pretty enough to paint!" said Alfred in an undertone.

"Yes; everything about her charms and interests one!"

"What drivelling idiots these mountaineers must be to be afraid of such a lovely child! For my part, I would gladly sell myself to the devil with her!"

"Well, messieurs! do you propose to go in here?" inquired Robineau, walking toward his companions.

"Oh! my dear Robineau, you must certainly agree that we cannot refuse this sweet child’s invitation. Besides, we have had nothing but milk this morning, and it seems to me that a little fruit would not do us any harm."

"But, messieurs, at my chÂteau you will have chickens and——"

"I am fully persuaded that we shall have geese and turkeys at your chÂteau; but, pending the time when we shall enjoy their society, let us make this young woman’s acquaintance. Come, Robineau, just this one concession—it will be the last."

"Great God! how many concessions I have made since yesterday!—You are making me pay very dear for my chÂteau!"

"I will write you a poem for your installation, Monsieur Jules."

"Well, if you insist upon it, let us go into the girl’s house for a minute; but beware of her dog!"

Isaure had opened the door. A superb dog, with long silky white hair, leaped upon her, then smelt each one of the visitors—a formality which did not please Robineau.

As they entered the cottage, Alfred turned and exclaimed:

"Why, where’s our guide? I don’t see him."

The shepherd had departed as soon as the girl appeared.

"He seems to have left us," said Edouard.

"Still another delay!" muttered Robineau.

"We can do without him quite well, and I will guarantee that we will be at your house within two hours. Meanwhile, let us enter the abode of the little sorceress, whose lovely eyes have turned my head already."

The young men entered a room on the ground floor, furnished with common articles, but spotlessly clean. At the rear could be seen a small yard, with the garden beyond.

"Would you like to see my garden while I am getting your breakfast ready, messieurs?" asked Isaure.

"With pleasure," said Alfred.

"Come, Vaillant, escort these gentlemen to the garden."

Vaillant understood his mistress’s signs and led the way. The young men followed him, Robineau saying to himself:

"It seems that it’s the dog who does the honors of the house."

They passed through the yard, where there were hens and pigeons, and Vaillant led them into the garden; it was small, but tastefully arranged, with fruit, vegetables and flowers all growing there without the least confusion. Edouard gazed at everything with deep interest, and Alfred with surprise; he could not understand how so pretty a girl could live alone in that cottage, where everything seemed to point to comfortable circumstances and orderly habits.

The dog walked in front of them; when they stopped, he did the same, and turned to look at them; then he would walk on, turning his head from time to time, to see if they were following him. He led the travellers thus to every nook and corner of the garden; then took them back to the house.

"This dog is an extraordinary creature," said Edouard; "a peasant could not have played the cicerone better."

"He is magnificent," said Alfred, "a genuine Newfoundland. He seems to be young still; I’ll wager that his like cannot be found in the whole district; he is worth more than six hundred francs."

"You must agree, messieurs," said Robineau, "that it’s surprising to find such a fine animal in a peasant girl’s house. For my part, I agree with the shepherd, that it’s very strange that a traveller should have given him to her,—unless the little one, in exchange, gave him her most precious possession."

"Oh! Monsieur Robineau, what an idea!" cried Edouard angrily. "To assume evil at once! to cast a slur upon this child’s virtue."

"Faith, my dear fellow," said Alfred, "it may well be that Robineau is right; we do not know this girl, but she lives alone, and——"

"And that’s a very suspicious circumstance," said Robineau; "but these poets are amazing creatures—they are determined to find prodigies of innocence and virtue everywhere."

"No, monsieur; poets feed on chimeras less than other men; for they are surfeited with all forms of fiction; they know how a romance is made, and they often go behind the scenes, where it is difficult to retain one’s illusions; but that is no reason for never believing in virtue, and I do not believe that an innocent girl is a prodigy in this part of the country."

At that moment Isaure appeared at the door and said:

"When you wish to breakfast, messieurs, everything is ready."

They returned to the cottage, where they found a table laden with fruit, bread and milk, and butter, all arranged with a daintiness and neatness that charmed the eye.

"This is more appetizing than the soup of our good friends of Chadrat," said Alfred, as he and his companions seated themselves at the table.

"Won’t you sit down with us?" Edouard asked Isaure.

"Oh, no! I have already breakfasted, monsieur; but I will stay to wait on you, if you require anything."

As she spoke, Isaure seated herself at some little distance from the table, took some work, and began to sew. Vaillant at once lay down in front of his mistress, with his face turned toward the visitors, from whom he did not take his eyes for an instant, like a sentinel stationed to guard an important post, who never relaxes his watchfulness, so that he may defend it if attacked.

While they ate, the young men frequently glanced at the girl. There was on her features an impressible, gentle expression, to which her ingenuous and candid glance imparted an indefinable charm.

"I agree with Edouard now," said Alfred after a moment, "and I believe that Robineau is wrong."

"Do you occupy this house all alone?" Edouard asked the girl.

"Yes, monsieur, all alone, for the three years since my dear mother died."

"Was AndrÉ’s widow your mother?"

"She took the place of a mother to me, for I never knew my own parents, who died a long time ago; but kind AndrÉ and his wife adopted me as their child. When he died I was very small; but his wife—it’s only three years since I lost her, and I think of her every day."

The girl’s voice trembled, and she lowered her head over her work; the young men looked at her and saw tears falling from her lovely eyes. Vaillant noticed the change in his mistress’s tone; he raised his head, stood up, and looked at Isaure; then turning his eyes on the strangers, he gave a low growl as if calling them to account for the girl’s tears; but she instantly put her hand on him, patted and caressed him, whereupon the dog became quiet once more and lay down at her feet.

"Forgive us for reviving your grief by our questions," said Alfred; "but travellers are inquisitive—and you are so pretty, you know!—But you must be bored, living all alone?"

"Bored? oh! no, monsieur! I have no time for that; I have so many things to do! My garden requires a great deal of care; and then, have I not company? my dog, my hens, my goats, and my cow?"

"She calls that company!" exclaimed Robineau with a smile of pity. "But you must be afraid here, aren’t you?" he asked Isaure.

"Afraid? no, monsieur; there are no thieves in our mountains; and even if anyone should try to harm me, have I not my faithful Vaillant? Oh! he would defend me stoutly!"

"I certainly wouldn’t want to fight with him," said Robineau.

"True," said Alfred, "that’s a magnificent dog of yours, and of a very valuable breed. They are the dogs that help the good monks on Mont Cenis and Mont Saint-Bernard to find lost travellers, who are often almost dead in the snow."

"Ah! I am sure that Vaillant would do as much!"

"Did you pay a high price for him?" inquired Robineau with a sarcastic smile.

The girl did not reply for some seconds; then she lowered her eyes and said:

"He was given to me—he cost me nothing. The person who made me the gift told me that he could not give me a more faithful guardian."

"Had I been in his place," said Edouard, "I would have done the same. Your situation is not without danger, and fidelity is assuredly the greatest safeguard of innocence and beauty."

Isaure looked up at Edouard and seemed to thank him with a smile; while Robineau shook his head and stuffed himself with bread and butter.

"But," said Alfred, "you live near a place against which all of Vaillant’s vigilance would be of no avail, assuming the reports that are current hereabout to be true."

"Ah! do you mean the house across the way?" said Isaure smiling, "where the people of the mountains declare that there are ghosts?"

"Exactly.—So you are not afraid of these ghosts?"

"Oh! no, monsieur! I know very well that it’s all nonsense. In my dear mother’s time, the mountaineers used to tell us sometimes that we ought to go away from this dangerous valley. But that only made us laugh. We knew that there was no danger here; for nothing ever happened to us."

"And don’t you ever see lights in the White House at night," asked Robineau, "or hear noises? Don’t you ever see the black ghost?"

A mischievous smile played about the girl’s lips as she replied:

"I have never seen anything out of the common course, monsieur."

"Faith," said Alfred, "we tried to find out whether the house was really unoccupied; and before coming here we went there and knocked, to the great scandal of the mountaineer who acted as our guide."

"You knocked at the White House?" said Isaure hastily; "did anyone answer?"

"No, of course not, as there’s no one there."

The girl seemed more or less excited; but she recovered herself and said:

"To be sure; it was of no use to knock."

Edouard looked closely at Isaure and tried to read her eyes; but Robineau sprang to his feet and cried:

"I think you must have eaten enough, messieurs, and it’s time for us to be going on."

Alfred and Edouard rose regretfully; they realized that it would not be well to prolong their visit then. Alfred drew his purse and was about to take out a piece of money, when the girl stayed his hand, saying:

"You owe me nothing, messieurs; my adopted parents never took pay from strangers who stopped at their house, and I should consider that I failed in respect to their memory if I did not do in everything as they did."

"Well, I must obey you, my lovely child," said Alfred; "but I expect to stay in this neighborhood for some time, and I warn you that I shall come again to ask you for some breakfast."

"Whenever you please, monsieur," said Isaure, with a little curtsy, while the young man tried to take her hand. But she hastily drew it back, with a smile to the three travellers.

Robineau had already left the cottage, and Edouard waited for Alfred to go before taking his leave. He said nothing to Isaure, but he gazed long at her, and his eyes found it difficult to leave her.