"Pille-Miche," he said to his comrade."Where's your tobacco-box?""Ho! /sacre bleu/! what a fine chain!" cried Pille-Miche, fumbling in a pocket constructed in his goatskin.
Then he held out to Marche-a-Terre the little horn in which Bretons put the finely powdered tobacco which they prepare themselves during the long winter nights.The Chouan raised his thumb and made a hollow in the palm of his hand, after the manner in which an "Invalide" takes his tobacco; then he shook the horn, the small end of which Pille-Miche had unscrewed.A fine powder fell slowly from the little hole pierced in the point of this Breton utensil.Marche-a-Terre went through the same process seven or eight times silently, as if the powder had power to change the current of his thoughts.Suddenly he flung the horn to Pille-Miche with a gesture of despair, and caught up a gun which was hidden in the straw.
"Seven or eight shakes at once! I suppose you think that costs nothing!" said the stingy Pille-Miche.
"Forward!" cried Marche-a-Terre in a hoarse voice."There's work before us."Thirty or more Chouans who were sleeping in the straw under the mangers, raised their heads, saw Marche-a-Terre on his feet, and disappeared instantly through a door which led to the garden, from which it was easy to reach the fields.
When Francine left the stable she found the mail-coach ready to start.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil and her new fellow-travellers were already in it.The girl shuddered as she saw her young mistress sitting side by side with the woman who had just ordered her death.The young man had taken his seat facing Marie, and as soon as Francine was in hers the heavy vehicle started at a good pace.
The sun had swept away the gray autumnal mists, and its rays were brightening the gloomy landscape with a look of youth and holiday.
Many lovers fancy that such chance accidents of the sky are premonitions.Francine was surprised at the strange silence which fell upon the travellers.Mademoiselle de Verneuil had recovered her cold manner, and sat with her eyes lowered, her head slightly inclined, and her hands hidden under a sort of mantle in which she had wrapped herself.If she raised her eyes it was only to look at the passing scenery.Certain of being admired, she rejected admiration; but her apparent indifference was evidently more coquettish than natural.
Purity, which gives such harmony to the diverse expressions by which a ****** soul reveals itself, could lend no charm to a being whose every instinct predestined her to the storms of passion.Yielding himself up to the pleasures of this dawning intrigue, the young man did not try to explain the contradictions which were obvious between the coquetry and the enthusiasm of this singular young girl.Her assumed indifference allowed him to examine at his ease a face which was now as beautiful in its calmness as it had been when agitated.Like the rest of us, he was not disposed to question the sources of his enjoyment.
It is difficult for a pretty woman to avoid the glances of her companions in a carriage when their eyes fasten upon her as a visible distraction to the monotony of a journey.Happy, therefore, in being able to satisfy the hunger of his dawning passion, without offence or avoidance on the part of its object, the young man studied the pure and brilliant lines of the girl's head and face.To him they were a picture.Sometimes the light brought out the transparent rose of the nostrils and the double curve which united the nose with the upper lip; at other times a pale glint of sunshine illuminated the tints of the skin, pearly beneath the eyes and round the mouth, rosy on the cheeks, and ivory-white about the temples and throat.He admired the contrasts of light and shade caused by the masses of black hair surrounding her face and giving it an ephemeral grace,--for all is fleeting in a woman; her beauty of to-day is often not that of yesterday, fortunately for herself, perhaps! The young man, who was still at an age when youth delights in the nothings which are the all of love, watched eagerly for each movement of the eyelids, and the seductive rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed.Sometimes he fancied, suiting the tenor of his thoughts, that he could see a meaning in the expression of the eyes and the imperceptible inflection of the lips.Every gesture betrayed to him the soul, every motion a new aspect of the young girl.If a thought stirred those mobile features, if a sudden blush suffused the cheeks, or a smile brought life into the face, he found a fresh delight in trying to discover the secrets of this mysterious creature.Everything about her was a snare to the soul and a snare to the senses.Even the silence that fell between them, far from raising an obstacle to the understanding of their hearts, became the common ground for mutual thoughts.But after a while the many looks in which their eyes encountered each other warned Marie de Verneuil that the silence was compromising her, and she turned to Madame du Gua with one of those commonplace remarks which open the way to conversation; but even in so doing she included the young man.
"Madame," she said, "how could you put your son into the navy? have you not doomed yourself to perpetual anxiety?""Mademoiselle, the fate of women, of mothers, I should say, is to tremble for the safety of their dear ones.""Your son is very like you."
"Do you think so, mademoiselle?"
The smile with which the young man listened to these remarks increased the vexation of his pretended mother.Her hatred grew with every passionate glance he turned on Marie.Silence or conversation, all increased the dreadful wrath which she carefully concealed beneath a cordial manner.
