at you. Why do you want to know my friend's name? Isn't it enough if I tell you he is a man of good birth?"
"Are you sure he is a man at all?"
The count and Petit-Pierre burst out laughing.
"So you insist on knowing the names of those you receive in your house?"
"Not for my sake, my dear Henri, – not for mine, I swear to you; but in the château de la Logerie-"
"Well? – in the château de la Logerie?"
"I am not master."
"Oh! then the Baronne Michel is mistress. I had already told my little friend Petit-Pierre that she might be. But it is only for one night. You could take us to your own room, and I can forage in the cellar and larder. I know the way. My young friend could get a night's rest on your bed, and early in the morning I'll find a better place and relieve you of our presence."
"Impossible, Henri. Do not think that it is for myself, I fear; but it will compromise your safety to let you even enter the château."
"How so?"
"My mother is still awake; I am sure of it. She is watching for me; she would see us enter. Your disguise we might find some reason for; but that of your companion, which has not escaped me, how could we explain it to her?"
"He is right," said Petit-Pierre.
"But what else can we do?"
"And," continued Michel, "it is not only my mother that I fear, but-"
"What else?"
"Wait!" said the baron, looking uneasily about him; "let us get away from these bushes."
"The devil!"
"I mean Courtin."
"Courtin? Who is he?"
"Don't you remember Courtin the farmer?"
"Oh! yes, to be sure, – a good sort of fellow, who was always on your side, even against your mother."
"Yes. Well, Courtin is now mayor of the village and a violent Philippist. If he found you wandering about, at night in disguise he would arrest you without a warrant."
"This is serious," said Henri de Bonneville, gravely. "What does Petit-Pierre think of it?"
"I think nothing, my dear Rameau-d'or; I leave you to think for me."
"The result is that you close your doors to us?" said Bonneville.
"That won't signify to you," said Baron Michel, whose eyes suddenly lighted up with a personal hope, – "it won't signify, for I will get you admitted to another house, where you will be in far greater safety than at La Logerie."
"Not signify! but it does signify. What says my companion?"
"I say that provided some door opens, I don't care where it is. I am ready to drop with fatigue, I am so tired."
"Then follow me," said the baron.
"Is it far?"
"An hour's walk, – about three miles."
"Has Petit-Pierre the strength for it?" asked Henri.
"Petit-Pierre will find strength for it," said the little peasant, laughing.
"Then let us follow Baron Michel," said Bonneville. "Forward, baron!"
And the little group, which had been at a standstill for the last ten minutes, moved away. But they had hardly gone a few hundred steps before Bonneville laid a hand on Michel's shoulder.
"Where are you taking us?" he said.
"Don't be uneasy."
"I will follow you, provided you can promise me a good bed and a good supper for Petit-Pierre, who, as you see, is rather delicate."
"He shall have all and more than I could give him at La Logerie, – the best food in the larder, the best wine in the cellar, the best bed in the castle."
On they went. At the end of some little time Michel said suddenly: -
"I'll go forward now, so that you may not have to wait."
"One moment," said Henri. "Where are we going?"
"To the château de Souday."
"The château de Souday!"
"Yes; you know it very well, with its pointed towers roofed with slate, on the left of the road opposite to the forest of Machecoul."
"The wolves' castle?"
"Yes, the wolves' castle, if you choose to call it so."
"Is that where we are to stay?"
"Yes."
"Have you sufficiently reflected, Michel?"
"Yes, yes; I will answer for everything."
The baron waited to say no more, but set off instantly for the castle, with that velocity of which he had given such unmistakable proof on the night when he went to fetch the doctor to the dying Tinguy.
"Well," asked Petit-Pierre, "what shall we do?"
"There is no choice now but to follow him."
"To the wolves' castle?"
"Yes, to the wolves' castle."
"So be it; but to enliven the way," said the little peasant, "will you be good enough to tell me, my dear Rameau-d'or, who the wolves are?"
"I will tell you what I have heard of them."
"I can't expect more."
Resting his hand on the pommel of the saddle, the Comte de Bonneville related to Petit-Pierre the sort of legend attaching, throughout the department of the Lower Loire, to the daughters of the Marquis de Souday. But presently, stopping short in his tale, he announced to his companion that they had reached their destination.
Petit-Pierre, convinced that he was about to see beings analogous to the witches in "Macbeth," was calling up all his courage to enter the dreaded castle, when, at a turn of the road, he saw before him an open gate, and before the gate two white figures, who seemed to be waiting there, lighted by a torch carried behind them by a man of rugged features and rustic clothes. Mary and Bertha-for it was they-informed by Baron Michel, had come to meet their uninvited guests. Petit-Pierre eyed them curiously. He saw two charming young girls, – one fair, with blue eyes and an almost angelic face; the other, with black hair and eyes, a proud and resolute bearing, a frank and loyal countenance. Both were smiling.
Rameau-d'or's young companion slid from his horse, and the two advanced together toward the ladies.
"My friend Baron Michel encouraged me to hope, mesdemoiselles, that your father, the Marquis de Souday, would grant us hospitality," said the Comte de Bonneville, bowing to the two girls.
"My father is absent, monsieur," replied Bertha. "He will regret having
