"Very well, Monsieur," said Nicolas after a pause, in a tone which meant anything but very well. "But first you will have enough to do to save yourself. This gentleman will soon be missed. He was in haste to go on, as you say. His servant will be wondering why he delays, and the landlord will become curious about his bill."

"Yes, but I must think a moment. Where is this poor lady? Who is the gentleman? There may be another letter—a clue of some sort."

I hurriedly examined the young man's pockets, but found nothing written. His purse I thought best to leave where it was: to whom, indeed, could I entrust it with any chance of its being more honestly dealt with than by those who should find the body? The innkeeper and the gentleman's servant, with their claims for payment, would see to that. But I kept the lady's note.

"Well," said I, "I must have a talk with the valet. I must find out where this gentleman was going, for that must be the place where the lady is."

"But the valet doesn't know where the gentleman was going. He was talking to me about that in the stables."

"That's very strange—not to know his master's destination."

"He knows very little of his master's affairs: he was hired only yesterday, at SablÉ. The gentleman was staying at the inn there. Yesterday he engaged this man, and said he was going to travel on at the end of the week. But this morning he suddenly made up his mind to start at once, and came off without saying where he was bound for. Until I told him, the man didn't know that the name of this town was La FlÈche."

"And what else did he tell you?"

"That's all. He was only grumbling about having to come away so unexpectedly, and being so in the dark about his master's plans."

"You're sure he didn't say what caused his master to change his mind and start at once?"

"He said nothing more, Monsieur."

"Did he mention his master's name?"

"No, we didn't get as far as that. It was only his desire to complain to somebody, that made him speak to me; and I was too busy with the horses to say much in reply."

"Then you didn't give my name—to him or any one else here?"

"Not to a soul, Monsieur."

"That's fortunate. Well, we must be attending to our business. I will pay the landlord, and give him some reason for riding on. While you are getting the animals ready, I will try to sound this valet a little deeper. Come."

Without another look behind, we hastened back to the inn.

"It's a fine evening," said I to the landlord, "and that gentleman I saw here awhile ago has given me the notion of riding on while the air is cool." I spoke as steadily as I could, and I suppose if the landlord detected any want of ease he put it down to the embarrassment of announcing a change of mind. In any case, he was not slow to compute the reckoning, nor I to pay it. Then, after seeing my bag and cloak brought down, I went in search of the young gentleman's valet. I found him in the kitchen, half way through a bottle of wine.

"Your master has not yet ridden on, then?" said I, dropping carelessly on the bench opposite him.

"No, Monsieur," he replied unsuspectingly. He seemed more like a country groom than a gentleman's body servant.

"I have decided to go on this evening, in imitation of him," I continued.

"Then your servant had better come back and finish his supper. It's getting cold yonder. Just as he was going to begin eating, he thought of something, and went out, and hasn't returned yet."

It was, alas, true. In my excitement I had forgotten all about Nicolas's supper, which he had left in order to see if I wanted my cloak for the cool of the evening.

"I sent him on an errand," I replied. "He shall sup doubly well later. As I was about to say, your master—by the way, if I knew his name I could mention him properly: we have so far neglected to give each other our names."

"Monsieur de Merri is my master's name, as far as I know it. I have been with him only since yesterday." He spoke in a somewhat disgruntled way, as if not too well satisfied with his new place.

"So I have heard." I said. "And it seems you were hustled off rather sooner than you expected, this morning."

"My master did change his mind suddenly. Yesterday he said he wouldn't leave SablÉ till the end of the week."

"Yes; but of course when he received the letter—" I stopped, as if not thinking worth while to finish, and idly scrutinized the floor.

"What letter, Monsieur?" inquired the fellow, after a moment.

"Why, the letter that made him change his mind. Didn't you see the messenger?"

"Oh, and did that man bring a letter, then?"

"Certainly. How secretive your master is. The man from—from—where did he come from, anyhow?"

"A man came to see my master at SablÉ early this morning—the only man I know of. I heard him say that he had ridden all the way from Montoire, following my master from one town to another."

"Yes, that is the man, certainly," said I in as careless a manner as possible, fearful lest my face should betray the interest of this revelation to me. "Well, I think I will go and see what has become of my servant. When you have finished that bottle, drink another to me." I tossed him a silver piece, and sauntered out. Nicolas was fastening the saddle girth of my horse in the yard. An ostler was attending to the mule. The innkeeper was looking on. I asked him about the different roads leading from the place, and by the time I had got this information all was ready. We mounted, I replied to the landlord's adieu, threw a coin to the ostler, and clattered out under the archway. From the square I turned South to cross the Loir, passing not far from the place where, surrounded by trees and bushes, the body of my adversary must still be lying.

"Poor young man!" said I. "Once we get safe off, I hope they will find him soon."

"They will soon be seeking him, at least," replied Nicolas. "Before you came out of the kitchen, the landlord was wondering to the ostler what had become of him."

"As he was to ride on at once, his absence will appear strange. Well, I'm not sorry to think he will be found before he lies long exposed. The authorities, no doubt, will take all measures to find out who he is and notify his people."

"And to find the person who left him in that state," said Nicolas fearfully.

"Well, I have a start, and shall travel as fast as my horse can safely carry me."

"But wherever you go, Monsieur, the law will in time come up with you."

"I have thought of that; and now listen. This is what you are to do. We shall come very soon to a meeting of roads. You will there turn to the right—"

"And leave you, Monsieur Henri?"

"Yes, it is necessary for my safety."

"And you will go on to Paris alone?"

"I am not going to Paris immediately—at least, I shall not go by way of Le Mans and Chartres, as I had intended. We have already turned our backs on that road, when we left the square in front of the inn. I shall go by way of Vendome." Montoire—where the letter had evidently come from and where therefore the lady probably was—lay on the road to Vendome.

"And I, Monsieur?"

"You are to go back to La Tournoire, but not by the way we have come over. This road to the right that you will soon take leads first to JarzÉ, and there you will find a road to the West which will bring you to our own highway not two leagues from home." I repeated these directions as we left La FlÈche behind us, till they seemed firmly lodged in Nicolas's head. "I don't know how long it will take you to do this journey," I added, "nor even when you may expect to reach JarzÉ. You mustn't overdo either the mule or yourself. Stop at the first country inn and get something to eat, before it is too late at night to be served. Go on to-night as far as you think wise. It may be best, or necessary, to sleep in some field or wood, not too near the road, as I shall probably do toward the end of the night."

"I shall certainly do that, Monsieur. It is a fine night."

"When you get to La Tournoire, you are to tell my father that I am going on without an attendant, but by way of Vendome. You needn't say anything about what you suppose my purpose to be: you needn't repeat what you heard me say about that lady, or the letter: you aren't to mention the lady or the letter at all."

"I understand, Monsieur Henri; but I do hope you will keep out of other people's troubles. You have enough of your own now, over this unlucky duel."

"It's to get me out of that trouble that you are going home. Give my father a full account of the duel. Tell him the gentleman insulted my religion as well as myself; that he tried my patience beyond endurance. My father will understand, I trust. And say that I shall leave it to him to solicit my pardon of the King. I know he would prefer I should place the matter all in his hands."

"Yes, to be sure, Monsieur Henri. And of course to a gentleman who has served him so well, the King can't refuse anything."

"He is scarce likely to refuse him that favour, at any rate. My father will know just what to do; just whom to make his petition through, and all that. Perhaps he will go to Paris himself about it; or he may send Blaise Tripault with letters to some of his old friends who are near the King. But he will do whatever is best. The pardon will doubtless be obtained before I reach Paris, as I am going by this indirect way and may stop for awhile in the neighbourhood of Vendome. But I shall eventually turn up at the inn we were bound for, in the Rue St. HonorÉ."

"Yes, Monsieur, and may God land you there safe and sound!"

"Tell my father that the only name by which I know my antagonist is Monsieur de Merri. Perhaps he belonged to Montoire; at any rate, he was acquainted there."

We soon reached the place where the roads diverge. I took over my travelling bag and cloak from Nicolas's mule to my horse, hastily repeated my directions in summary form, supplied him with money, and showed him his road, he very disconsolate at parting, and myself little less so. As night was falling, and so much uncertainty lay over my immediate future, the trial of our spirits was the greater. However, as soon as he was moving on his way, I turned my horse forward on mine, and tried, by admiring the stars, to soften the sense of my loneliness and danger.

I began to forget the peril of my present situation by thinking of the affair I had undertaken. In the first place, how to find the lady? All I knew of her was that she was probably at Montoire, that she had been associated in some way with Monsieur de Merri, and that she now thought herself in imminent danger. And I had in my possession a piece of her handwriting, which, however, I should have to use very cautiously if at all. There was, indeed, little to start with toward the task of finding her out, but, as Montoire could not be a large place, I need not despair. I would first, I thought, inquire about Monsieur de Merri and what ladies were of his acquaintance. If Monsieur de Merri himself was of Montoire, and had people living there, my presence would be a great risk. I could not know how soon the news of his death might reach them after my own arrival at the place, nor how close a description would be given of his slayer—for there was little doubt that the innkeeper would infer the true state of affairs on the discovery of the body. The dead man's people would be clamorous for justice and the officers would be on their mettle. Even if I might otherwise tarry in Montoire unsuspected, my insinuating myself into the acquaintance of one of Monsieur de Merri's friends would in itself be a suspicious move. The more I considered the whole affair, the more foolish seemed my chosen course. And yet I could not bear to think of that unknown lady in such great fear, with perhaps none to aid her: though, indeed, since none but Monsieur de Merri could save her honour and life, how could I do so? Well, I could offer my services, at least; perhaps she meant she had nobody else on whose willingness she could count; perhaps she really could make as good use of me as of him. But on what pretext could I offer myself? How could I account to her for my knowledge of her affairs and for Monsieur de Merri's inability to come to her? To present myself as his slayer would not very well recommend my services to her. Would she, indeed, on any account accept my services? And even if she did, was I clever enough to get her out of the situation she was in, whatever that might be? Truly the whole case was a cloud. Well, I must take each particular by itself as I came to it; be guided by circumstance, and proceed with delicacy. The first thing to do was to find out who the lady was; and even that could not be done till I got to Montoire, which, being near Vendome, must be at least two days' journey from La FlÈche.

As I thought how much in the dark was the business I had taken on myself, my mind suddenly reverted to the first of the monk's three maxims that Blaise Tripault had given me, which now lay folded in my pocket, close to the lady's note.

"Never undertake a thing unless you can see your way to the end of it."

I could not help smiling to think how soon chance had led me to violate this excellent rule. But I am not likely to be confronted again by such circumstances, thought I, and this affair once seen through, I shall be careful; while the other maxims, being more particular, are easier to obey, and obey them I certainly will.

I rode on till near midnight, and then, for the sake of the horse as well as the rider, I turned out of the road at a little stream, unsaddled among some poplar trees, and lay down, with my travelling bag for pillow, and my cloak for bed and blanket. The horse, left to his will, chose to lie near me; and so, in well-earned sleep, we passed the rest of the night.

The next morning, when we were on the road again, I decided to exchange talk with as many travellers as possible who were going my way, in the hope of falling in with one who knew Montoire. At a distance from the place, I might more safely be inquisitive about Monsieur de Merri and his friendships than at Montoire itself. The news of what had happened at La FlÈche would not have come along the road any sooner than I had done, except by somebody who had travelled by night and had passed me while I slept. In the unlikelihood of there being such a person, I could speak of Monsieur de Merri without much danger of suspicion. But even if there was such a person, and the news had got ahead, nobody could be confident in suspecting me. I was not the only young gentleman of my appearance, mounted on a horse like mine, to be met on the roads that day. And besides, I was no longer attended by a servant on a mule, as I had been at La FlÈche. So I determined to act with all freedom, accost whom I chose, and speak boldly.

Passing early through Le Lude, I breakfasted at last, and talked with various travellers, both on the road and at the inn there, but none of them showed any such interest, when I casually introduced the name of Montoire, as a dweller of that place must have betrayed. To bring in the name of the town was easy enough. As thus:—in the neighbourhood of Le Lude one had only to mention the fine chateau there, and after admiring it, to add: "They say there is one very like it, at some other town along this river—I forget which—is it Montoire?—or La Chartre?—I have never travelled this road before." A man of Montoire, or who knew that town well, would have answered with certainty, and have added something to show his acquaintance there. The chateau of Le Lude served me in this manner all the way to Vaas, where there is a great church, which answered my purpose thence to Chateau du Loir. But though I threw out my conversational bait to dozens of people, of all conditions, not one bite did I get anywhere on the road between Le Lude and La Chartre.

It was evening when I arrived at La Chartre, and I was now thirteen leagues from La FlÈche, thanks to having journeyed half the previous night. Anybody having left La FlÈche that morning would be satisfied with a day's journey of nine leagues to Chateau du Loir, the last convenient stopping-place before La Chartre. So I decided to stay at La Chartre for the night, and give my horse the rest he needed.

At the inn I talked to everybody I could lay hold of, dragging in the name of Montoire, all to no purpose, until I began to think the inhabitants of Montoire must be the most stay-at-home people, and their town the most unvisited town, in the world. In this manner, in the kitchen after supper, I asked a fat bourgeois whether the better place for me to break my next day's journey for dinner would be Troo or Montoire.

"I know no better than you," he replied with a shrug.

"Pardon, Monsieur; I think you will find the better inn at Montoire," put in a voice behind my shoulder. I turned and saw, seated on a stool with his back to the wall, a bright-looking, well-made young fellow who might, from his dress, have been a lawyer's clerk, or the son of a tradesman, but with rather a more out-of-doors appearance than is usually acquired in an office or shop.

"Ah," said I, "you know those towns, then?"

"I live at Montoire," said he, interestedly, as if glad to get into conversation. "There is a fine public square there, you will see."

"But it is rather a long ride before dinner, isn't it?"

"Only about five leagues. I shall ride there for dinner to-morrow, at all events."

"You are returning home, then?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Have you been far away?"

"That is as one may think," he replied after a moment's hesitation, during which he seemed to decide it best to evade the question. His travels were none of my business, and I cared not how secretive he might be upon them. But to teach him a lesson in openness, I said:

"I have travelled from Le Lude to-day."

"And I too," said he, with his former interest.

"I didn't see you at the inn there," said I. "You must have left early this morning."

"Yes, after arriving late last night. Yesterday evening I was at La FlÈche."

I gave an inward start; but said quietly enough: "Ah?—and yet you talk as if you had slept at Le Lude."

"So I did. I travelled part of the night."

"And arrived at Le Lude before midnight, perhaps?"

"Yes, a little before. Luckily, the innkeeper happened to be up, and he let me in."

I breathed more freely. This young man must have left La FlÈche before I had: he could know nothing of the man slain.

"There is a good inn at La FlÈche," I said, to continue the talk.

"No doubt. I stopped only a short while, at a small house at the edge of the town. I was in some haste."

"Then you will be starting early to-morrow?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

I resolved to be watchful and start at the same time. But lest he should have other company, or something should interfere, I decided not to lose the present opportunity. So I began forthwith:

"I have met a gentleman who comes, I think, from Montoire, or at least is acquainted there,—a Monsieur de Merri, of about my own age."

The young fellow looked at me with a sudden sharpness of curiosity, which took me back: but I did not change countenance, and he had repossessed himself by the time he replied:

"There is a Monsieur de Merri, who is about as old as you, but he does not live at Montoire. He sometimes comes there."

Here was comfort, at least: I should not find myself among the dead man's relations, seeking vengeance.

"No doubt he has friends there?" I ventured.

"No doubt, Monsieur," answered the young man, merely out of politeness, and looking vague.

"Probably he visits people in the neighbourhood," I tried again.

"I cannot say," was the reply, still more absently given.

"Or lives at the inn," I pursued.

"It may be so." The young fellow was now glancing about the kitchen, as if to rid himself of this talk.

"Or perhaps he dwells in private lodgings when he is at Montoire," I went on resolutely.

"It might well be. There are private lodgings to be had there."

"Do you know much of this Monsieur de Merri?" I asked pointblank, in desperation.

"I have seen him two or three times."

"Where?"

"Where? At Montoire, of course." The speaker, in surprise, scrutinized me again with the keen look he had shown before.

It was plain, from his manner, that he chose to be close-mouthed on the subject of Monsieur de Merri. He was one of those people who generally have a desire to talk of themselves and all their affairs, but who can be suddenly very secretive on some particular matter or occasion. I saw that I must give him up, for that time at least. Perhaps on the road next day his unwillingness to be communicative about Monsieur de Merri would have passed away. But meanwhile, what was the cause of that unwillingness? Did he know, after all, what had occurred at La FlÈche, and had he begun to suspect me? I inwardly cursed his reticence, and went soon to bed, that I might rise the earlier.

But early as I rose, my young friend had beaten me. The ostler to whom I described him said he had ridden off half-an-hour ago. In no very amiable mood, I rode after him. Not till the forenoon was half spent, did I catch up. He saluted me politely, and gave me his views of the weather, but was not otherwise talkative. We rode together pleasantly enough, but there was no more of that openness in him which would have made me feel safe in resuming the subject of Monsieur de Merri. As we approached noon and our destination, I asked him about the different families of consequence living thereabouts, and he mentioned several names and circumstances, but told me nothing from which I could infer the possibility of danger to any of their ladies. It was toward mid-day when we rode into the great square of Montoire, and found ourselves before the inn of the Three Kings.

I turned to take leave of my travelling companion, thinking that as he belonged to this town he would go on to his own house.

"I'm going to stop here for a glass of wine and to leave my horse awhile," he said, noticing my movement.

He followed me through the archway. A stout innkeeper welcomed me, saw me dismount, and then turned to my young fellow-traveller, speaking with good-natured familiarity:

"Ah, my child, so you are back safe after your journey. Let us see, how long have you been away? Since Sunday morning—four days and a half. I might almost guess where you've been, from the time—for all the secret you make of it."

The young man laughed perfunctorily, and led his horse to the stable after the ostler who had taken mine.

"A pleasant young man," said I, staying with the landlord. "He lives in this town, he tells me."

"Yes, an excellent youth. He owns his bit of land, and though his father was a miller, his children may come near being gentlemen."

I went into the kitchen, and ordered dinner. Presently my young man entered and had his wine, which he poured down quickly. He then bowed to me, and went away, like one who wishes to lose no time.

Suddenly the whole probability of the case appeared to me in a flash. Regardless of the wine before me, and of the dinner I had ordered, I rose and followed him.

I had put together his reticence about Monsieur de Merri, his having been away from Montoire just four and a half days, the direction of his journey, and his errand to be done immediately on returning. He must be the messenger who had carried the lady's note to SablÉ, and he was now going to report its delivery and, perhaps, Monsieur de Merri's answer. If I could dog his steps unseen, he would lead me to the lady who was in danger.