Diane and Her Friends/The Three Experiences of Le Vieux

HERE frequently exists in a community some individual who, justly or unjustly, is the object of suspicion and aversion, of whom children are instinctively afraid, and about whose life gathers a legend of mystery and evil. Souls being governed by the same inexorable laws of action and reaction which reign in the world of atoms, such an individual usually repays suspicion with suspicion and aversion with aversion, until mutual distrust becomes a fear on the one hand and is returned with hatred on the other.

One evening of early summer such a man shuffled into the glare of the Café de la Régence, disappearing as quickly into the darkness which encircled this one brilliant spot of the great square of Freyr. At one of the tables which crowded the passer-by into the street, this black shadow, traversing the lighted space like a night-bird, provided a subject for discussion. A young lieutenant of the garrison declared him a harmless fool. The lieutenant had a frank, open face, admirably matching the light blue of his cavalry jacket. His neighbor, the linen-draper, who willingly sipped a glass of absinthe every evening at the lieutenant's expense, and whose closely buttoned coat suggested the shutters which every night guarded his little shop, was of another opinion. He pronounced the man a dangerous character.

"Gentlemen," said M. Surbeck, the commissary of police, as he laid down a double-six on the adjoining table, "you are equally mistaken. He is both."

Meanwhile Le Vieux, as he was commonly designated by mothers in Freyr, who utilized him for disciplinary purposes when children were refractory, indifferent to the interest he had excited, having placed his sou on the counter of the bakery in the Rue de la Cite and possessed himself of the black loaf for which he had come, was shuffling back through the deserted streets to the lane which wound between the vineyard walls to the river.

A man without human attachments is an enigma. To be comprehended, one must have a past, either respectable or disreputable. To descend upon a community without social passports, from nowhere, to have no sponsor, no visible means of existence, to possess nothing, even a name, is to set curiosity in motion and justify suspicion. A man must have had a father, a mother. Who were they? There must be a beginning to everything. What was the beginning of this existence which, like a comet without antecedents, had silently installed itself in the orderly system of Freyr? The social astronomers of the basse-ville had in vain calculated its orbit. Some fault even had been found with the Countess Anne for permitting the intruder to occupy the ruined hut which vaguely recalled to the oldest inhabitant the ferry existing before the stone bridge connected Freyr with the opposite shore. Originally a mere shelter for passengers awaiting transfer across the river, its present master had converted it into a home. With complete disregard for the necessity of any legal forms of acquisition, when occasion arose to mention it, he referred to it as chez moi. Close under the cliff, at the end of the now disused ferry lane, hidden by a wild growth of overhanging trees and vines, it formed an excellent retreat for one in whom the consciousness that he was avoided had fostered a corresponding repugnance to society.

Except for his daily visit to the bakery in the Rue de la Cité, and an occasional détour to the red lantern which marked the spot where Madame Euphrasie dispensed tobacco, his presence in Freyr itself was rare. These visits, however, being always made after nightfall, added to his sinister reputation. During the day he might be discerned from the parapet of the bridge, a black spot under the château rock, in a curious boat of his own construction; and, later in the day, Dr. Leroux or the Abbé d'Arlot, descending the path through the château wood, occasionally encountered him with the basket of fish destined for the countess's table. These fish were the only known source of the sous which found their way across the counter of Madame Euphrasie. Sometimes the countess herself, sitting under the oaks on the terrace, wished to examine the contents of his basket. Certainly some ancestor in his mysterious past had entertained faint conceptions of the distinction which society had established between thine and mine, for frequently on these occasions a well-nigh uncontrollable desire seized him to wrench from its fragile chain the glittering thing which hung just below the countess's throat. Perhaps it was that same ancestor who also implanted in his soul the deadly fear which restrained his hand—a fear, instinctive as that of the wild animal for fire, of something incomprehensible but real, a ubiquitous power which, like an inveterate enemy, dogged his footsteps, and which was visibly imaged in his mind under the form of the commissary of police.

It would have surprised the Countess Anne to know that the fires in the jewel, the mere weight of which on her bosom brought happy recollections, had kindled another fire which belied the opinion of the young lieutenant of chasseurs. Solitude and imagination, which nearly proved the ruin of St. Anthony, also conspired with the countess's diamond. In the long hours devoted to watching the cork floating from his line on the surface of the river, Le Vieux saw this diamond shining in the blue depths below. Doubtless within those vast stone walls frowning from the rock above were countless such, as well as bits of blue-tinted paper like the thousand-franc notes in the banker's window in Freyr. At a distance the attraction of these things was insignificant. Their propinquity obsessed him. Once in his dreams a whole shower of these notes fluttered down on the thatch of his hut from the windows above the tree-tops, like autumn leaves. What wore into his brain, as the dripping water from the cliff into the rocks at its base, was the damnable iteration of these thoughts. Obviously either a diamond or a thousand-franc note would be of dubious value to him. To hold them in his hand for his own, to know them hidden under his roof, was the sum of his desire. The difficulty of converting them into any pleasure greater than their possession was so enormous that he did not even think of it. Moreover, in the background loomed the shadow of that dread power called the Law, invoked by the inhabitants of Freyr as a blessing, but known to him only as the commissary of police. A plan, at first vague, began slowly to shape itself in his thoughts.

It was while evolving this plan one late afternoon, as he sat smoking in the doorway of his cabin, that an extraordinary incident occurred. A piercing cry, followed by a heavy splash in the water at the foot of the cliff, brought him to his feet. In an instant he had loosened the moorings of his boat and was sweeping under the gray wall of rock in the boiling waters of the eddy known as the "Cauldron of the Devil." A dark object before him disappeared and reappeared again. A few powerful strokes of the oar brought him within its reach. With a decision not to be suspected of a mind whose action was ordinarily so sluggish, he plunged overboard. Below, the river widened, curving along a low reach of meadow. Here, in the quiet backwater, he appeared presently, swimming strongly and evenly, and, on gaining footing in the shallows, the dark object was clearly in his arms. Two small white hands were locked so tightly about his neck that he loosened their hold with difficulty. Stripping off the wet outer garment, he wrapped what he now observed was a little girl in his blouse and began to pick his way along the shore.

On account of the cliff he was obliged to make the circuit of the château through the forest. As he proceeded he felt with satisfaction the beating of a heart beneath the blouse—with satisfaction, because it would be difficult to explain what he was doing with a dead child in his arms. No one is more suspicious or more difficult to convince than the commissary of police. It was with increased satisfaction that, after reaching his hut, he saw in the bundle gently deposited on his bed renewed evidences of life. Stimulated by a few drops from a black bottle, by the warmth of a ragged covering heated before a quickly improvised fire, the child's eyes opened. It did not occur to him that the image of sudden death, so recently present, was the cause of their terror. Had he not himself always been a cause of terror to every child in Freyr? It was necessary to efface himself, to divert attention, to assume his best manner. He began to talk rapidly, incoherently, spreading the wet garments with nervous unconcern before the fire.

"The river is cold—naturally even in summer—but a drop of brandy—that feels good in the stomach, eh? When I have dried this frock—what a pretty blue color it has!—and these shoes—ah, there is nothing so bad as shoes—they fill with water—and that pulls one down like a weight—it is true I am good for nothing—but have no fear—"

The terror had gone out of the child's eyes. "I am not afraid," she said.

He looked up, his blinking eyes filled with a dull surprise and wonder.

"You are not afraid!"

"Why should I be afraid? But for you I should have remained down there."

His face lighted up slowly. "Nom de Dieu! that is true. But for me"—he laughed aloud—"you would have remained down there. And you thought of that!"

"Why should I not think of that, monsieur?"

The question plunged him in still deeper bewilderment. Holding the soaked clothing to the blaze, he gazed into the fire as if slowly digesting some incredible statement.

"Monsieur, now will you please take me home?"

Since when had any one called him monsieur? He roused himself instantly.

"This moment—of what am I thinking?—your mother—"

"I have no mother, monsieur."

"Ah!" He paused. He had committed an error. "No—naturally—that is—but your father—"

"Oh, yes, I have a father."

"So much the better. There!" wrapping her in his warm blouse and taking her in his arms. "Forward! Where does he live—this good father?"

"In the Place de la République."

"The Place de la République? That is easy to find."

"Yes, at the prefecture."

"The prefecture?" He repeated the word as one who is in doubt whether he has heard aright.

"Yes, monsieur. My father"—this a little proudly—"is Monsieur Surbeck."

He stood still as if stunned by a blow.

"You are the child of Monsieur Surbeck?"

"Yes, monsieur."

Closing the door mechanically behind him, he stumbled along the uneven path between the inclosing walls of the vineyards. The commissary of police! The full import of this revelation did not at first disclose itself. It began to grow like a distant and approaching light. Suddenly he muttered aloud, "What luck!" He did not reason this out clearly—perhaps the logic was faulty—he felt it—that he held his enemy in the hollow of his hand.

Thereafter he did not speak. It was now late. Lamps were lighted in Freyr. The prefecture was quite dark. The child pointed out a little door in the moss-grown court. Unwrapping his blouse from about her, he stood her gently on the door-step, reaching for the long wire dangling beside the door. It was at this instant that the child, lifting up her face, said, "Monsieur, I would like to kiss you."

A servant answered the summons. M. Surbeck was not at home. Then arose exclamations, cries, the clatter of hurrying footsteps. In the confusion he escaped.

Bareheaded, his blouse over his arm, the imprint of a kiss still on his forehead, he came before realizing it into the glare of the Café de la Régence. His clothes were still drenched with the slime and water of the river. A woman's voice was heard from one of the tables, saying, "It is an outrage to public morality to permit such things." He drew back quickly, but not before a heavy hand rested on his shoulder.

"In what hole have you been digging, you sewer-rat?"

"Monsieur le commissaire, " he said humbly, "I have just pulled your child out of the Devil's Cauldron. You will find her on your doorstep."

The rescue of "the little Surbeck" provided Freyr with ample material for gossip. The child herself was made to repeat every detail for the hundredth time. It was admitted that a good-for-nothing had for once been good for something. But what a fool, to reject the good money which M. Surbeck had pressed upon him; to refuse even the new boat ordered by the mayor! The verdict of the basse-ville was unanimous: Le Vieux was "an original." The Abbé d'Arlot, on the other hand, saw in this conduct a proof of his contention that in every soul there existed a seed planted by God. In all Freyr M. Surbeck was the only person who was not astonished. Enemies do not accept favors from each other. To be under obligations to such a man annoyed him. Should occasion arise, the occasion always present to his mind, he would no longer be free. That a personal obligation should interfere with an official duty was inconceivable.

Hardly a week elapsed, however, before the inconceivable confronted him. It arrived in the mail from Paris. Every employee in the prefecture observed that morning that the commissary, always so methodical, so impassive, appeared agitated. At ten o'clock he closed his desk and left the prefecture without explanation—an unheard-of proceeding. The bonne of the Abbé d'Arlot was no less surprised, on answering the bell at the garden gate, to see the commissary before her. Never before had he called upon the abbé. As for that matter, he had never even been seen within the doors of Our Lady of Mercy. The truth was that, while a good friend and neighbor, he had never personally felt the need for the restraints or consolations of Religion, which, in his opinion, like the Law, existed for the benefit of that portion of society which came also under his supervision. For the abbé he entertained the respect due to the servant and administrator of a coördinate branch of the public service. It was in that capacity that he announced himself as the abbé offered him a seat under the linden of his garden. So far into the morning was the interview prolonged that the abbé's bonne began to be concerned for the soup simmering on the fire. She had almost made up her mind to interfere, and had ventured to the fountain on the pretense of washing the lettuce. From this point of observation she saw with amazement that neither her master nor his visitor was speaking. Upon both these servants of society a silence had fallen. Then she heard the abbé say:—

"Let us consult the Countess Anne."

Curiosity now banished anxiety for the soup, and while still under its influence the two men rose.

"After you, monsieur," said the abbé. And the creaking gate closed behind them.

If the commissary assented at once to the abbé's proposal, it was not solely because of his desire to share with some one his responsibility. The Countess Anne occupied a peculiar position in the social organism of Freyr. Her ministry possessed the authority neither of the Law nor of the Church, yet was scarcely less honored; for, as Dr. Leroux once sarcastically observed to the abbé, her justice was finer than that of the one and her charity wider than that of the other. In certain perplexities, moreover, a man turns instinctively to that other court of appeal, whose procedures are of a different order, since they are presided over by a woman.

Seated in the high-backed chair in the little room which the countess called her bureau, the abbé stated the case.

"M. le Commissaire," he began, "was confronted with a painful necessity"—the abbé pronounced the word with great gentleness. "In the discharge of his duty to society he had investigated the civil status of the man known as Le Vieux. This man was now identified. He had committed a crime—the abbé omitted to mention its nature—for which he had been sentenced to a term of years. He had escaped. A complete dossier had been received from the Prefecture of Paris. "

The commissary nodded affirmation. "I have the documents here," he said, tapping his breast-pocket.

"Give them to me," said the countess. Evidently she wished to examine them. The abbé had not been very explicit. "I accept full responsibility for them," she continued, opening the desk before which she was seated and depositing them carefully in one of its numerous pigeonholes.

"But, madame," exclaimed the astonished commissary, "I have my report to make. There are also my instructions."

"Make it, my friend, make it—in strict conformity with the truth. As for your instructions, that is another matter. I also will make a report to the prefect. Consider your duty ended."

"Madame la Comtesse is right," interjected the abbé.

"I promise also," she added, "to restore you these papers whenever in the discharge of your duty you require them of me."

In fulfillment of her promise the Countess wrote to Paris. The reply of the prefect was a model of politeness. He presented his compliments to the Comtesse de Salignac. Her kindness of heart had been imposed upon. The criminal in question was a most dangerous character. He also appreciated fully the feelings of the local functionary. They were most creditable. To arrest a man who had risked life to save an only child was a delicate mission which he would on no account impose upon a public servant whose record was irreproachable. An inspector was therefore leaving Paris that very day to take charge of the affair. And again he had the honor to beg Madame la Comtesse to accept the assurance of his most distinguished consideration.

On reading this letter the countess went at once to her desk and wrote another. It was addressed to General Texier, Paris. After relating the details of the case, she continued:—

"Of what clay, my dear general, is your Prefect of Paris made that he imagines that our friend the commissary can hide his head like an ostrich in the sand while another is doing the work which he shrinks from himself? You or I would certainly warn our protégé, and when the agent arrived the bird would have flown: This is what I am resolved to do if I do not receive from you the telegram you will send me. In that case, if I ever have the pleasure of seeing you again it will be from behind the bars of the prison which I see now from my window—for I believe there is a provision in the penal code for those who have the effrontery to thwart the majesty of Justice. But I count upon your influence at the Élysée.

"Do you remember that autumn in the Vosges which I passed so happily with you? We were young in those days; you were thinking of the advancement which you have won and I of the happiness which I have lost. For the sake of those dear hours under your roof and of an old woman who remembers them, hurry, my dear friend, that  which to-morrow afternoon I shall be hourly expecting. ".

Having dispatched this letter, the countess's thoughts reverted to the inspector who doubtless was already on his way to Freyr. What could she do to divert him in the interval? The bells of Our Lady of Mercy were striking four. It was the hour at which she usually visited the hospital. Her donkey Balafré, in charge of the gardener, was already picking his way down the steep path with his panniers of sweets and flowers. Well, to-day she would not go. She would examine those documents of M. Surbeck. They were not pleasant reading. Crime has its sorrowful as well as its sordid aspects. No, they were not pleasant reading. Lost in reflection, the sinister seals of these incriminating witnesses spread before her on her knees, on her desk, the sound of a gently opened door startled her. There is a way of opening a door which sends a shudder through one who hears it. Looking up, she saw a man with a knotted stick in his hand.

Had the abbé been able to look into that soul in which he thought to find the seed of the good God, his optimism would have been sorely disconcerted. A bitter anger against self reigned there. At every step Le Vieux had taken that night, on his way home, this rage had increased. Why had he answered so humbly? Why had he cringed? Because habit had been too strong for him. Because, hatless, besmirched with mud, in the glare of those lights, in the presence of those people, courage had deserted him. And now this man thought to be quits with him for a few bits of blue-tinted paper! Ah,non! Nom de Dieu, non!

The hand on his shoulder had effaced the kiss on his forehead.

Slowly the plan which for a time had lain dormant began to take shape again. Nothing certainly could be more foolish than to reject the freely offered francs of the commissary and to risk liberty for those locked in the strong-box of the countess. One bird in the cage is worth two in the air. Was it a sullen rage against society which prompted him? The desire to defy at all hazards, in a kind of despair, that which crushed him? To explain the complex motives which lie behind certain human actions is impossible, reason so often reasons irrationally. In all the confusion of this sodden brain one conviction, however, stood out boldly. The hands of the commissary were tied. It was inconceivable that the man who had seized him so roughly before the Café de la Régence should ever again lay his hand on the shoulder of the savior of his child. This also was illogical. But it proved that the sewer-rat of M. Surbeck had a heart, since of the stoicism of Brutus he had no conception.

He had not chosen the hour of four o'clock without due premeditation. It was the hour when the countess, accompanied by the gardener, was in town. He chose the daytime because the great Danes on the terrace knew him well. After nightfall they were less respectful. From his place of concealment he had heard the voice of the gardener expostulating with Balafré, who was wont to pause at the angles of the steep descent. The way was clear. He had also noted the little stairway which led from the service corridor. He had seen the countess herself sometimes make use of this stairway when he came with his basket of fish. Evidently, then, it led to her apartments. At its head several doorways confronted him. He chose the first one. One must trust something to luck. But first he listened. He heard no sound but his own breathing. On opening the door, therefore, he was astounded to meet the eyes of the countess fixed upon him. His hand tightened on his stick and a scowl gathered on his face—the scowl of a man trapped, who finds more work cut out for him than he contemplated.

"Come in," said the countess; "you are the man I wished to see."

There was no terror in the voice that addressed him. The same astonishment he had experienced at the fearlessness of the little Surbeck possessed him again. He stood irresolute.

"Come in, Monsieur Garat; I have something to say to you."

Garat! his name. He felt the clutch of the commissary on his shoulder.

"You were born at Rheims on the 5th of February, 1847,—here is your birth certificate. On the 24th of December, 1876, in the village of Vigny, you murdered the agent of M. de Sèze, who came to collect the rent. There were extenuating circumstances. It seems that you were a good workman, that your wife—but we will pass over these details, whose recital will afflict you. You were sentenced to twenty years of hard labor—here is the sentence of the Tribunal of Rheims—and you escaped."

A spasm of anger shook the man from head to foot. "Give me those papers," he commanded, advancing threateningly upon her.

"But, my good man," said the countess, "you are mistaken—these are only copies—take them—I give them to you willingly. They are of no consequence. It is with me, not with them, that you have to deal. And, I assure you, I am your friend."

"Ah," said the countess, relating this incident afterward to the abbé, "how terrified I was at that instant!"

But in Le Vieux this quiet, even voice had worked a transformation. His aspect, before terrible, became pitiable. He was again the accused, standing at the bar before his judges, awaiting sentence. And this woman had said, "I am your friend."

"We will arrange all this to-morrow," pursued the countess, seizing her advantage and reaching at the same time for the silken tassel hanging beside her desk. "See no one, do nothing—above all things, do not fly. If you trust me I will protect you. Thérèse," she said to the maid who had answered her summons, "give Monsieur Garat a glass of sherry—and—bring me one also—I feel a little indisposed."

The following morning Inspector Joly, arriving from Paris by the night express, drove over the bridge from the neighboring station, and at precisely eight o'clock, having finished his coffee at the Café de la Régence, strolled leisurely across the square to the prefecture. Clean-shaven, with round, rosy cheeks, he was taken by the solitary waiter, who pocketed the three sous left on the table, for a commercial traveler awaiting the hour when the shopkeepers removed their shutters. After pausing to admire the fountain by Girardon, M. Joly entered the archway of the prefecture. There he found a note to the effect that it was absolutely essential to the success of his mission that he should first consult the Comtesse de Salignac. The word "consult" annoyed him. It implied something derogatory to him in his professional capacity. Furthermore, interference of any kind was distasteful to him. But from long experience he knew the danger of neglecting anything. Having, then, made what he termed his "little dispositions," he set out for the château plainly visible from the door of the prefecture.

It was one of his cardinal principles not to form an opinion prematurely. But from the manner in which he said to himself, "Let us now see this countess," it was clear that he did not attach any particular importance to his visit. His reception agreeably surprised him. A little assumption of authority on the part of one belonging to the Old Régime might have been expected. But there was nothing officious in this interference. He was prepared also for possible flattery, a weapon he had frequently encountered in women having ends to gain. The recital to which he listened was so frank, so direct and natural, that before it was finished he experienced the pleasure of flattery without knowing it. For this woman took him into her confidence, the confidence of her loving heart, without tears, without pleadings, as though he were of the same nobility. He admitted that he saw no objection to awaiting the reply of General Texier.

"Nor I," said the countess. "This man will not think of escaping—"

"That would be useless," remarked M. Joly, a little dryly; "I have taken my precautions."

"He is under surveillance, then?"

"It is better in such cases, madame."

"But it was not necessary, I assure you. I myself told him on no account to attempt flight."

The inspector restrained a gesture with difficulty.

"You see, he came last night in this room to rob me. He stood there, at that door behind you, with a villainous stick in his hand. Fortunately, I was armed with the documents of M. Surbeck. 'Monsieur Garat,' I said, 'I know you. You murdered the agent of M. de Sèze in Vigny on the 24th of December, 1876. Go back to your home and remain there; I will protect you.'"

"And you imagine that he is still there?"

Between admiration for such courage and astonishment at such credulity M. Joly was nearly speechless.

"I think so. Naturally you are not inclined to agree with me. But I believe I can convince you. Every morning I observe the smoke which rises from his chimney. I observed it to-day."

The inspector smiled. She would make an excellent agent, he thought.

"You see, monsieur, I am not thinking of this man's body. I wish, if possible, to save his soul. No one in Freyr but Monsieur Surbeck and the Abbé d'Arlot knows what we know. What will a pardon avail him if all Freyr knows that he has committed a murder? Nothing. That is why I ask you to wait a few hours. "

"I see," said the inspector.

"There is another request I would make of you," she pursued. "When walking in the forest I observe how, at the rustle of a branch, all its inhabitants take alarm. What will he do, this man to whom I have said, 'Remain; I will protect you,' if he should hear the branch of a tree broken by your agent? Remove this agent at once, I beg of you; and since, in fact, it is I who guarantee you your—" the countess was about to say prey—"I will take his place."

"It shall be as you desire, madame, " said the inspector, rising; and as he crossed the terrace he remarked to himself, "Either I have been altogether a fool or very nearly an angel."

A few minutes later the Countess Anne herself followed him down the path. Seeing that she wore her hat, the big Danes began barking joyfully.

"Not to-day," she said, as they tugged at their chains. "To-day I have need of another sort of protector."

After stopping for a moment at the Bureau des Postes et Télégraphes, she rang the bell which dangled in the inner court of the prefecture.

"Would you like to spend the day with me in the woods?" was the proposal she made to the little Surbeck.

"I would dearly," replied the child.

"And would you like to take something to that poor man who saved your life?" she asked, as they passed before the shops of the Grande Rue.

The child's eyes glistened with pleasure.

"Come, then," said the countess, entering the Maison Duval, above whose door were the imposing words "Produits Coloniales."

A man without work, whose wife is awaiting motherhood, whose cupboard is empty, in a fit of despair and anger seizes a knife from the table and buries it in the body of his tormentor. The learned doctor who performed the autopsy testified that the blade penetrated the heart. "He had no heart!" cried out the accused. This outburst, promptly repressed, emphasized in a dramatic manner the extenuating circumstances. Returning at the peril of his life after fifteen years of captivity, this man discovers no trace of child or mother. The only footprints left behind him are those on the pages of the criminal records. To interrogate too closely is dangerous. He therefore disappears beneath the surface of society as a drowning man disappears. Thereafter he is a dead man, alive only to his own consciousness. For him there is no To-morrow—only a Yesterday. And now that Yesterday rose up, menacing. And in the face of this specter a woman had said, "Above all, do not fly; I will protect you."

Through the long hours of the night the waters of the Meuse at the base of the cliff repeated these words incessantly. When morning came he heated a little coffee mechanically, as a man eats in the presence of death. As the hours wore on, the reassuring words which from time to time he repeated began to lose their power. He began to reason, and with reason came terror. "Your name is Garat. On the 24th of December, 1876, you murdered the agent of M. de Sèze at Vigny." That was true. And since everything was known, everything was decided. He would be arrested.

As yet he had not opened the door. At every sound he trembled. Yes, it was surely better to fly, while there was yet time—to escape suspense if not justice. Having reached this resolution, he lifted the stone under which his hoardings were hidden, concealed them in the lining of his trousers, and opened the door. Should he trust himself to the Meuse or make the circuit through the forest? Either course was perilous. Or was it better to wait for nightfall?

Just then a little girl appeared, running from between the high walls of the lane.

"Monsieur, monsieur," she cried, "we have come to pass the day with you."

"I cannot tell you how those hours passed," said the countess to the Abbé d'Arlot, as they sat one evening on the terrace. "What diversions I invented, what terrible silences occurred, what glances were avoided. But for that child it would have been impossible—impossible. But in the afternoon they brought me my petit-bleu from the Minister of Justice. It contained only two words: 'Garat—pardoned.' 'Can you read?' I said to him. 'A little, madame.' 'Take this to monsieur, my child,' I said; 'it is your present to your savior.' After that—well, truly, I remember nothing. It was a kind of delirium."

"And you are not afraid to have a murderer for your head gardener?" smiled the abbé.

"Really, my friend," said the countess, "I think more of him than of my two Danes."