We hoped to be at Hugues's house before the Countess's flight should be discovered. Hugues and I discussed the chances as we rode. The Count would probably give his murderous agents ample time before going to see why they did not come to report the deed accomplished. He would then lose many minutes in breaking into the cell, and again in questioning the watchman on the tower—who could not have seen us in the woods and distant lanes—and considering what to do. The bloodhounds would doubtless be put upon the Countess's scent, but they would lose it at the place where we had taken horse. And then, Hugues thought, having tracked us into the forest, the Count would assume that we had continued our flight through it without change of direction, and he would push on to St. Arnoult, and along the road to Chateaurenault and Tours. This was, indeed, the most likely supposition. The Count would scarce expect to find us harboured in any house in the neighbourhood, and he knew nothing of Hugues's attachment to Mathilde. Still I thought it well that the Countess should travel on as far as possible that night, and I asked her if she felt able to do so after stopping at Hugues's house for some food.

"Oh, yes," she answered compliantly.

I then broke to her that Hugues's and I had provided a suit of boy's clothes which she might substitute for her present attire at his house, and so travel with less likelihood of attracting notice. To this she made no objection. She seemed, on leaving the chateau, to have resigned herself, almost languidly, to guidance. A kind of listlessness had come over her, which I attributed to exhaustion of spirit after all she had experienced.

I then told her that Hugues and I had decided it best that Mathilde should stay at his house for the present, keeping very close and having the hiding-place accessible, while I went on with the Countess. Hugues himself, who could entirely trust his old woman-servant and his boy, would see us as far as to our first resting-place.

To these proposals also she said "Very well," in a tone of half-indifference, but she cast a long, sad look at Mathilde, at mention of leaving her.

"And then, Madame," I went on, "as to our journey after we leave Hugues's house. You have said you are without relations or fortune."

"Alas, yes. A provision for life-maintenance at the convent was all the fortune left me."

"In that case, I ask you, in the name of my father and mother, to honour them as their guest at La Tournoire. I can promise you a safe and private refuge there: I can promise you the friendship of my mother, the protection of my father, and his good offices with the King, if need be, to secure your rightful claims when the Count de Lavardin dies, as he must before many years."

"No, no, Monsieur, I shall have no claims. The Count married me without dowry, and if there be any other claims I surrender them. As for your generous offer, I cannot think of accepting it. You and I are soon to separate, and must not see each other again."

"But, Madame, I need not be at La Tournoire while you are there. I shall be out in the world, seeking honour and fortune."

"No, Monsieur, it is not to be thought of. My only refuge is the convent from which the Count took me."

"But is it safe to go there? Have you not said yourself that the Count would take measures to intercept you on the way?"

"But you and Hugues just now agreed that the Count would probably seek me on the road to Chateaurenault. That is in the opposite direction to the convent, which is beyond Chateaudun."

"But the Count may seek toward the convent when he fails to find you in the other direction. Or he may take the precaution to send a party that way at once."

"We shall be there before he or his emissaries can, shall we not? Once in the convent, I shall be safe.—And besides, Monsieur,"—her voice took on a faint touch of mock-laughing bitterness—"he will think I have run away with you for love, and for a different life than that of a convent. No; as matters are, it is scarce likely he will seek me in the neighbourhood of the convent."

It was then determined that we should make for the convent, which, curiously, as it was beyond Chateaudun, happened to be upon my road to Paris. We now arrived at Hugues's gate.

I dismounted only to help the Countess, and stayed in the road with the horses, while Hugues led Madame and Mathilde into the cottage. He took them thence into the mill, that they might eat, and the Countess change her dress, at the very entrance to the hiding-place. He then returned to me, the plan being that if we heard pursuit he and I were to mount and ride on, thus leading our enemies away from the Countess, who with Mathilde should betake herself to the hiding-place till danger was past. With Hugues's knowledge of the byways and forest paths, we might be able to elude the hunt. During this wait we refreshed ourselves with wine and bread, which the old woman brought, and the boy fed the horses. In a short time the Countess reappeared, a graceful, slender youth in doublet, breeches, riding-boots of thin leather, cap, and gloves. Her undulating hair had been reduced by Mathilde, with a pair of shears, to a suitable shortness. Mathilde followed her, loth to part. We allowed little time for leave-taking with the poor girl, and were soon mounted and away, Hugues leading.

"I suggest, Madame," said I, as we proceeded along the road, which was soon shadowed from the moonlight by a narrow wood at our right, "that on this journey you pass as my young brother, going with me to Paris to the University. I will say that we have ridden ahead of our baggage and attendants,—which is literally true, for my baggage remains at Hugues's house and you have left Mathilde there."

"Very well, Monsieur," she replied.

"I should have some name to call you by upon occasion," said I. "I will travel as Henri de Varion, for De Varion was my mother's name, and if you are willing to use it—"

"Certainly, Monsieur. As for a name to call me by upon occasion, there will be least falsehood in calling me Louis; for my real name is Louise."

"Thank you, Madame; and if you have to address me before people, do not forget to call me Henri."

"I shall not forget."

Her manner in this acquiescence was that of one who follows blindly where a trusted guide directs, but who takes little interest in the course or the outcome. A kind of forlorn indifference seemed to have stolen over her. But she listened to the particulars of residence and history with which I thought it wise to provide ourselves, and briefly assented to all. She then lapsed into silence, from which I could not draw her beyond the fewest words that would serve in politeness to answer my own speeches.

Meanwhile Hugues led us from the road and across the narrow wood, thence by a lane and a pasture field to the highway for Vendome and Paris. We pushed on steadily, passed through Les Roches, which was sound asleep, and, stopping only now and then to let our horses drink at some stream, at which times we listened and heard no sound upon the road, we entered Vendome soon after daylight.

"Had we better stop here for a few hours?" said I, watching the Countess and perceiving with sorrow how tired and weak she looked.

"I think it well, Monsieur," replied Hugues, his eyes dwelling where mine did.

"And yet," I said, with a thought of the horror of her being taken, "it is so few leagues from Lavardin. In such a town, too, the Count's men would visit all the inns. If we might go on to some village—some obscure inn. Could you keep up till then, Madame, do you think?"

"Oh, yes,—I think so." But her pallor of face, her weakness of voice, belied her words.

"We should be more closely observed at some smaller place than here," said Hugues. "Besides, we need not go to an inn here. There is a decent, close-mouthed woman I know, a butcher's widow, who will lodge you if her rooms are not taken. It would be best to avoid the inns and go to her house at once. As like as not, if the Count did hunt this road, he would pass through the town without guessing you were at private lodgings."

"It is the best thing we can do," said I, with a blessing upon all widows of butchers. Hugues guided us to a little street behind the church of the Trinity, and soon brought the widow's servant, and then the widow herself, to the door. Her rooms were vacant, and we took two of them, in the top story, one overlooking the street, the other a backyard wherein she agreed to let our horses stand. She promised moreover to say nothing of our presence there, and so, while Hugues led the horses through the narrow stone-paved passage, the widow showed us to our rooms. The front one being the larger and better, I left the Countess in possession of it as soon as we were alone, that she might rest until the woman brought the food I had ordered.

When breakfast was set out in the back room, and the Countess opened her door in answer to my knock, she looked so worn out and ill that I was alarmed. She had fallen asleep, she said, and my knock had wakened her. She ate little, and I could see that she was glad to go back and lie down again.

I had thought to resume our journey in the evening, and perhaps reach Chateaudun by a night's riding. But at evening the Countess seemed no more fit to travel than before. So I decided to stay at the widow's till Madame was fully recovered. Hugues would have remained with us another day, but I sent him back to his mill and Mathilde.

On the morrow the Countess was no better. I took the risk of going out, obtaining medicine at the apothecary's, and purchasing other necessary things for both of us which we had not been able to provide before our flight. I was in dread lest we might have to resort to a physician and so make discovery that my young brother was a woman. Madame declared her illness was but exhaustion, and that she would soon be able to go on. But it was some days before I thought her strong enough to do so.

We had come into Vendome on a Wednesday: we left it on the following Monday morning. We encountered nothing troublesome on the road, and arrived at Chateaudun that Monday night. The Countess endured the journey fairly well; but her strange, dreamy listlessness had not left her.

At Chateaudun as at Vendome, we sought out lodgings in a by-street, and therein passed the night. We were now but a few hours' ride from the convent, by Madame's account of its location. Soon I should have to part from her, with the intention on her side not to see me again, and the promise on mine to respect that intention. To postpone this moment as long as possible, I found pretexts for delaying our departure in the morning; but as afternoon came on she insisted upon our setting out. I did so with a sorrowful heart, knowing it meant I must take my last leave of her that evening.

From our having passed nearly a week without any sign of pursuit, a feeling of security had arisen in us. If the Count or his men had sought in this direction, passing through Vendome while we lay quiet in our back street, that search would probably be over by this time. But even if chase had not been made simultaneously by various parties on various roads, there had been time now for search in different directions one after another. Yet spies might remain posted at places along the roads for an indefinite period, especially near the convent. But as long as the risk was only that of encountering a man or two at once, I had confidence enough. In Vendome I had bought the Countess a light rapier to wear for the sake of appearance, of course not expecting her to use it. But though in case of attack I should have to fight alone, I felt that her presence would make me a match for two at least.

I tried to avoid falling in with people on the road, but a little way out from Chateaudun we came upon a country gentleman, of a well-fed and amiable sort, whose desire for companionship would let us neither pass ahead nor drop behind. He was followed by three stout servants, and expressed some concern at seeing two young gentlemen like us going that road without attendants.

"Though to be sure," he added, "there seems to be less danger now; but you must have heard of the band of robbers that haunt the forests about Bonneval and further on. There has been little news of their doings lately, and some people think they may have gone to other parts. But who knows when they will suddenly make themselves heard of again, when least expected?—'tis always the way."

He soon made us forget about dangers of the road, however, by his hearty talk; though, indeed, for all his good-fellowship I would rather have been alone with Madame in these last moments. About a league from Chateaudun, he arrived at his own small estate, rich in wines and orchards; he regretted that we would not stop, and recommended inns for us at Bonneval and the towns beyond.

We rode on, the Countess and I, in silence, my own heart too disturbed for speech, and she in that same dispirited state which had been hers from the beginning of our flight. Indeed now, when I was so soon to bid her farewell, she seemed more tired and melancholy, pale and drooping, than I had yet seen her. As I was sadly noticing this, we came to a place where a lesser road ran from the highway toward a long stretch of woods at the right. The Countess drew in her horse, and said, indicating the branch road:

"That is my way, Monsieur. I will say adieu here; but I will not even try to thank you. You have risked your life for me many times over. I will pray for you—with my last breath."

"But, Madame," I exclaimed in astonishment, "we are not to say adieu here. I must see you to the convent."

"The convent is not so far now. I know the way; and I wish to go there alone. You will respect my wish, I know: have you not had your way entirely so far on our journey? You cannot justly refuse me my will now." She gave a wan little smile as if she knew the argument was not a fair one.

"But, Madame,—what can be your reason?—It is not safe. Surely you will not deny me the happiness of seeing my service fully accomplished,—of knowing that you are safe at the convent?"

"I am nearly there. I know the road,—it is a shorter way than the high roads, but little used. I shall meet no travellers. I fear no danger."

"But consider, Madame. The danger may be at the very end of your journey. The Count may have spies within sight of the convent. You may fall into a trap at the last moment."

"I can go first to the house of a woodman in the forest, whose wife was a servant of my mother's. They are good, trustworthy people, and can see if all is safe before I approach the convent. If there is danger, I can send word by them to the Mother Superior, who can find means to get me in secretly at night. You may deem your service accomplished, Monsieur. I must take my leave now."

"But it is so strange! What can be your reason?—what can be your objection to my going with you?"

"Ah, Monsieur, it may be unfair, but a woman is exempt from having to give reasons. It is my wish,—is not that enough? I am so deeply your debtor already,—let me be your debtor in this one thing more.—You have spent money for me: I have no means of repaying—nay, I will not mention it,—you have given me so much that is above all price,—your courage and skill. But enough of this—to speak of such things in my poor way is to cheapen them. Adieu, Monsieur!—adieu, Henri!"

She held out her hand, to which I lowered my lips without a word, for I could not speak.

"You will go your way when I go mine," she said with tenderness. "To Paris, perhaps?"

"To Paris—I suppose so," I said vaguely.

"This horse belongs to Hugues," she said, stroking the animal's neck. "I may find means to send it back to him.—Well, adieu! God be with you on your journey, Monsieur,—and through your life."

"Oh, Madame!—adieu, if you will have it so! adieu!—adieu, Louis!"

She smiled acquiescently at my use of the name by which I had had occasion to call her a few times at our lodging-places. Then, saying once more, "Adieu, Henri!" she turned her horse's head and started down the by-road. With a heavy heart, I waited till she had disappeared in the woods. I had hoped she might look back, but she had not done so.

A movement of my rein, which I made without intention, was taken by my horse as a signal to go on, and the creature, resuming its original direction, kept to the highway and plodded along toward Bonneval and Paris.

Never in all my life, before or since, have I felt so alone. What was there for me to do now? All my care, all my heart, was with the solitary figure on horseback somewhere yonder in the forest. Had life any object for me elsewhere?

Yes, faith!—and I laughed ironically as it came back to my thoughts—I might now go on to Paris and cut off the moustaches of Brignan de Brignan!