Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/572

9, 1860.] Again two loud knocks echoed through the kitchen; and M. Ebrard, somewhat reluctantly, took up the lamp, traversed the wide passage which led to the outer door, and then, without attempting to open it, he demanded, in a harsh impatient voice, who was there?

“A traveller,” was the reply; “are you going to keep me in the rain for another hour?”

“What do you want?” was the next interrogation.

“What do I want? Why, some supper and a bed, of course, if I am not quite drowned before you let me in.”

“There, don’t be angry, Monsieur, whoever you are;” grumbled the host, as he drew back the ponderous bolt and turned the large key in the lock. “Walk in, and remember you have arrived at such an unusual hour, that, when our part of the country is known to be swarming with robbers, a man who has anything to lose had need be careful not to open his door to one of the band.”

As he spoke he raised his lamp to a level with the stranger’s face. The investigation apparently terminated satisfactorily, for his manner changed at once; he bowed respectfully, shouldered a trunk which stood upon the threshold, re-closed the door, and preceded the new-comer to the kitchen.

A fine-looking young man threw off his large wrapping-cloak, which was dripping with mud and rain, made one bound towards the blazing fire, and seated himself upon the bench opposite to Marie, saying, in a clear, joyous voice as he did so; “This is charming, this is delicious, mine host! Had you expected me, I could not have wished a pleasanter welcome. And now I must ask you to hasten my supper, for I want to get off by the patache to to-morrow at daybreak; I should like to go to bed as early as I can.”

“All will be ready in ten minutes,” said Ebrard. “But you will excuse me if I venture to remind you that you might have gone on there by the diligence, as it passes through the town, instead of stopping here only to start again at dawn.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the stranger; “you are either very curious or very timid, Monsieur mon hôte, for you have not as yet got rid of your distrust. In order to tranquillise you, therefore, I will explain thus much. My family reside in a country house at a short distance from the town, and by continuing my journey in the diligence I should have arrived in the middle of the night—an arrangement which I was particularly anxious to avoid: whereas, by taking the boat at six o’clock to-morrow morning, I shall reach home by dinner-time. Have I now succeeded in satisfying you as to my honesty of purpose?”

“Oh, Monsieur!” was the somewhat embarrassed reply of the landlord, as he met the sly smile of the young man; “you have quite misunderstood me. One look into your frank and handsome face was enough; although, to be sure, I was puzzled a little to guess what caused you to stop here when you could have gone on without a halt to your journey’s end.”

During this brief dialogue the eyes of Marie and the stranger met more than once; and while he examined her with undisguised admiration and astonishment, she, on her side, was for the first time aroused into something like interest in what was passing around her: the pale cheek flushed to the tint of a hedge-rose, and the curved and fiexile lips quivered with a nervous movement; while her head drooped upon her bosom, bowed down by a new and vague emotion, to which she could have given no name. A ray of light had mysteriously penetrated the darkness and desolation of her spirit; for the first time since her mother’s death she felt as though she were no longer alone.

She turned one hurried look on the friend of her stepfather—the heavy, soulless peasant who sought to make her his wife, and her heart swelled with indignation and loathing; the glance wandered back, and it rested for an instant upon the high fair brow, the waving curls, and the beaming countenance of the young traveller—the guest of a few brief hours. Poor Marie! at that moment she fully appreciated all the bitterness of her position. What could she appear in the eyes of such a being as he who was before her, but a menial! a creature to come and go at the bidding of every one who could repay her services with money? While he—The poor girl shuddered, and choked back her tears; she was not free even to weep over herself.

The supper was served, and in less than twenty minutes had disappeared; and then her step-father once more aroused her by harshly desiring that she would light a candle, and conduct Monsieur to his chamber.

The poor girl passively obeyed, and led the way to a large and cheerful room on the first story.

“You cannot be the daughter of the landlord?” said Adolphe de Rosval, as she placed the light upon a table.

“I am not, Monsieur,” replied Marie; and a vivid blush overspread her cheeks.

“I thought so. Those white and delicate hands, and that crimson brow, are evidence to the contrary at this moment. Have you many travellers in the house to-night?”

“You are the only one.”

“I am glad of it, for your sake. What is your name, Mademoiselle?”

“Marie, Monsieur.”

“The sweetest of all names! It becomes you well.”

“Does Monsieur require anything more?” asked the girl timidly.

“Nothing,” said the young man, bowing as courteously as though she had been some high-born dame. “Good night.”

The salutation was returned, the door of the chamber closed, and Marie descended the stairs, stumbling at every step.

Adolphe could not recover his astonishment. Who could this young girl be? Was he the victim of a mystification? No; that was impossible; for even his own family were not aware that he had obtained a month’s leave of absence from Saint Cyr, in order that he might receive the congratulations of his friends on his promotion to a sub-lieutenancy. What, then, could it mean? That she was not the daughter of his