I met his look without quailing. "So be it!" I said recklessly. "If I do not bring M. de Cocheforêt to Paris, you may do that to me, and more also!"
"It is a bargain!" he answered slowly. "I think you will be faithful. For money, here are a hundred crowns. That sum should suffice; but if you succeed you shall have twice as much more. Well, that is all, I think. You understand?"
"Yes, Monseigneur."
"Then why do you wait?"
"The lieutenant?" I said modestly.
Monseigneur laughed to himself, and sitting down wrote a word or two on a slip of paper. "Give him that," he said, in high good-humour. "I fear, M. de Berault, you will never get your deserts-in this world!"
CHAPTER II
AT THE GREEN PILLAR
Cocheforêt lies in a billowy land of oak and beech and chestnut-a land of deep, leafy bottoms, and hills clothed with forest. Ridge and valley, glen and knoll, the woodland, sparsely peopled and more sparsely tilled, stretches away to the great snow mountains that here limit France. It swarms with game-with wolves and bears, deer and boars. To the end of his life I have heard that the great King loved this district, and would sigh, when years and State fell heavily on him, for the beech-groves and box-covered hills of South Béarn. From the terraced steps of Auch you can see the forest roll away in light and shadow, vale and upland, to the base of the snow-peaks; and, though I come from Brittany and love the smell of the salt wind, I have seen few sights that outdo this.
It was the second week in October when I came to Cocheforêt, and, dropping down from the last wooded brow, rode quietly into the place at evening. I was alone, and had ridden all day in a glory of ruddy beech-leaves, through the silence of forest roads, across clear brooks and glades still green. I had seen more of the quiet and peace of the country than had been my share since boyhood, and I felt a little melancholy; it might be for that reason, or because I had no great taste for the task before me-the task now so imminent. In good faith, it was not a gentleman's work, look at it how you might.
But beggars must not be choosers, and I knew that this feeling would pass away. At the inn, in the presence of others, under the spur of necessity, or in the excitement of the chase, were that once begun, I should lose the feeling. When a man is young, he seeks solitude: when he is middle-aged he flies it and his thoughts. I made without ado for the Green Pillar, a little inn in the village street, to which I had been directed at Auch, and, thundering on the door with the knob of my riding-switch, railed at the man for keeping me waiting.
Here and there at hovel doors in the street-which was a mean, poor place, not worthy of the name-men and women looked out at me suspiciously. But I affected to ignore them; and at last the host came. He was a fair-haired man, half Basque, half Frenchman, and had scanned me well, I was sure, through some window or peephole; for, when he came out, he betrayed no surprise at the sight of a well-dressed stranger-a portent in that out-of-the-way village-but eyed me with a kind of sullen reserve.
"I can lie here to-night, I suppose?" I said, dropping the reins on the sorrel's neck. The horse hung its head.
"I don't know," he answered stupidly.
I pointed to the green bough which topped a post that stood opposite the door.
"This is an inn, is it not?" I said.
"Yes," he answered slowly; "it is an inn. But-"
"But you are full, or you are out of food, or your wife is ill, or something else is amiss," I answered peevishly. "All the same, I am going to lie here. So you must make the best of it, and your wife, too-if you have one."
He scratched his head, looking at me with an ugly glitter in his eyes. But he said nothing, and I dismounted.
"Where can I stable my horse?" I asked.
"I'll put it up," he answered sullenly, stepping forward and taking the reins in his hands.
"Very well," I said; "but I go with you. A merciful man is merciful to his beast, and where-ever I go I see my horse fed."
"It will be fed," he said shortly. And then he waited for me to go into the house. "The wife is in there," he continued, looking at me stubbornly.
"Imprimis-if you understand Latin, my friend," I answered, "the horse in the stall."
As if he saw it was no good, he turned the sorrel slowly round, and began to lead it across the village street. There was a shed behind the inn, which I had already marked and taken for the stable, and I was surprised when I found he was not going there. But I made no remark, and in a few minutes saw the horse well stabled in a hovel which seemed to belong to a neighbour.
This done, the man led the way back to the inn, carrying my valise.
"You have no other guests?" I said, with a casual air. I knew he was watching me closely.
"No," he answered.
"This is not much in the way to anywhere, I suppose?"
"No."
That was evident; a more retired place I never saw. The hanging woods, rising steeply to a great height, so shut the valley in that I was puzzled to think how a man could leave it save by the road I had come. The cottages, which were no more than mean, small huts, ran in a straggling double line, with many gaps-through fallen trees and ill-cleared meadows. Among them a noisy brook ran in and out. And the inhabitants-charcoal-burners, or swineherds, or poor people of the like class, were no better than their dwellings. I looked in vain for the Château. It was not to be seen, and I dared not ask for it.
The man led me into the common room of the tavern-a low-roofed, poor place, lacking a chimney or glazed windows, and grimy with smoke and use. The fire-a great half-burned tree-smouldered on a stone hearth, raised a foot from the floor. A huge black pot simmered over it, and beside one window lounged a country fellow talking with the goodwife. In the dusk I could not see his face, but I gave the woman a word, and sat down to wait for my supper.
She seemed more silent than the common run of women; but this might be because her husband was present. While she moved about, getting my meal, he took his place against the doorpost and fell to staring at me so persistently that I felt by no means at my ease. He was a tall, strong fellow, with a rough moustache and brown beard, cut in the mode Henri Quatre; and on the subject of that king-a safe one, I knew, with a Béarnais-and on that alone, I found it possible to make him talk. Even then there was a suspicious gleam in his eyes that bade me abstain from questions; and as the darkness deepened behind him, and the firelight played more and more strongly on his features, and I thought of the leagues of woodland that lay between this remote valley and Auch. I recalled the Cardinal's warning that if I failed in my attempt I should be little likely to trouble Paris again.
The lout by the window paid no attention to me; nor I to him, when I had once satisfied myself that he was really what he seemed to be. But by and by two or three men-rough, uncouth fellows-dropped in to reinforce the landlord, and they, too, seemed to have no other business than to sit in silence looking at me, or now and again to exchange a word in a patois of their own. By the time my supper was ready, the knaves numbered six in all; and, as they were armed to a man with huge Spanish knives, and evidently resented my presence in their dull rustic fashion-every rustic is suspicious-I began to think that, unwittingly, I had put my head into a wasp's nest.
Nevertheless, I ate and drank with apparent appetite; but little that passed within the circle of light cast by the smoky lamp escaped me. I watched the men's looks and gestures at least as sharply as they watched mine; and all the time I was racking my wits for some mode of disarming their suspicions-or failing that, of learning something more of the position, which, it was clear, far exceeded in difficulty and danger