Fleur-de-Marie. "To-morrow I will come, since you are so good as to allow me to do so."
"Here we are at the garden gate," said the priest. "Leave your basket there, Claudine; my housekeeper will take it. Return quickly to the farm with Marie, for it is almost night, and the cold is increasing. To-morrow, Marie, at five o'clock."
"To-morrow, father."
The abbé went into his garden. The Goualeuse and Claudine, followed by Turk, took the road to the farm.
CHAPTER VI.
THE RENCOUNTER.
The night set in clear and cold. Following the advice of the Schoolmaster, the Chouette had gone to that part of the hollow way which was the most remote from the path, and nearest to the cross-road where Barbillon was waiting with the hackney-coach. Tortillard, who was posted as an advanced guard, watched for the return of Fleur-de-Marie, whom he was desirous of drawing into the trap by begging her to come to the assistance of a poor old woman. The son of Bras Rouge had advanced a few steps out of the ravine to try and discern Marie, when he heard the Goualeuse some way off speaking to the peasant girl who accompanied her. The plan had failed; and Tortillard quickly went down into the ravine to run and inform the Chouette.
"There is somebody with the young girl," said he, in a low and breathless tone.
"May the hangman squeeze her weasand, the little beggar," exclaimed the Chouette in a rage.
"Who's with her?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Oh, no doubt, the country wench who passed along the road just now, followed by a large dog. I heard a woman's voice," said Tortillard. "Hark!—do you hear? There's the noise of their sabots," and, in the silence of the night, the wooden soles sounded clearly on the ground hardened by the frost.
"There are two of 'em. I can manage the young 'un in the gray mantle, but what can we do with t'other? Fourline can't see, and Tortillard is too weak to do for the companion—devil choke her! What can be done?" asked the Chouette.
"I'm not strong, but, if you like, I'll cling to the legs of the country-woman with the dog. I'll hold on by hands and teeth, and not let her go, I can tell you. You can take away the little one in the meantime, you know, Chouette."
"If they cry or resist, they will hear them at the farm," replied the Chouette, "and come to their assistance before we can reach Barbillon's coach. It is no easy thing to carry off a woman who resists."
"And they have a large dog with them," said Tortillard.
"Bah! bah! If it was only that, I could break the brute's skull with a blow of my shoe-heel," said the Chouette.
"Here they are," replied Tortillard, who was listening still to the echo of their footsteps. "They are coming down the hollow now."
"Why don't you speak, fourline?" said the Chouette to the Schoolmaster. "What is best to be done, long-headed as you are, eh? Are you grown dumb?"
"There's nothing to be done to-day," replied the miscreant.
"And the thousand 'bob' of the man in mourning," said the Chouette; "they are gone, then? I'd sooner—Your knife—your knife, fourline! I will stick the companion, that she may be no trouble to us; and, as to the young miss, Tortillard and I can make off with her."
"But the man in mourning does not desire that we should kill any one."
"Well, then, we must put the cold meat down as an extra in his bill. He must pay, for he will be an accomplice with us."
"Here they come—down the hill," said Tortillard, softly.
"Your knife, lad!" said the Chouette, in a similar tone.
"Ah, Chouette," cried Tortillard, in alarm, and extending his hands to the hag, "that is too bad—to kill. No!—oh, no!"
"Your knife, I tell you!" repeated the Chouette, in an undertone, without paying the least attention to Tortillard's supplication, and putting her shoes off hastily. "I have taken off my shoes," she added, "that I may steal on them quietly from behind. It is almost dark; but I can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and I will do for the other."
"No," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. There will be plenty of time to-morrow."
"What! you're afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the Chouette, with fierce contempt.
"Not at all," replied the Schoolmaster. "But you may fail in your blow and spoil all."
The dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to come to Fleur-de-Marie, who called him frequently.
"Do you hear their dog? Here they are! Your knife!—or, if not—" cried the Chouette, with a threatening air.
"Come and take it from me, then—by force," said the Schoolmaster.
"It's all over—it's too late," added the Chouette, after listening for a moment attentively; "they have gone by. You shall pay for that, gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice. "A thousand francs lost by your stupidity!"
"A thousand—two thousand—perhaps three thousand gained," replied the Schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "Listen, Chouette! Do you go back to Barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet the man in mourning. Tell him that it was impossible to do anything to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. The young girl goes every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance which to-day led her to meet with any one. To-morrow we shall have a more secure opportunity. So to-morrow do you return and be with Barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour."
"But thou—thou?"
"Tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young girl lives. I will cook up some tale—say we have lost our road, and ask leave to pass the night at the farm in a corner of the stable. No one could refuse us that. Tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins and outs of the house. There is always money to be looked for amongst these farming people. You say the farm is situated in a lone spot; and, when once we know all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some safe friends, and the thing is done as easy—"
"Always 'downy!' What a head-piece!" said the Chouette, softening. "Go on, fourline."
"To-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, I will complain of a pain which prevents me from walking. If they will not believe me, I'll show them the wound which I have always had since I smashed the 'loop of my darbies,' and which is always painful to me. I'll say it is a burn I had from a red-hot bar when I was a workman, and they'll believe me. I'll remain at the farm part of the day, whilst Tortillard looks about him. When the evening comes on, and the little wench goes out as usual with the priest, I'll say I'm better, and fit to go away. Tortillard and I will follow the young wench at a distance, and await your coming to us here. As she will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she sees us. We will speak to her, Tortillard and I; and, when once within reach of my arms, I will answer for the rest. She's caught safe enough, and the thousand francs are ours. That is not
