“Well crowed, my bantam,” said Santerre;
“and be good enough to tell me where you come
from. No, friend Denot, no, we’ll have no
dagger work just at present.” And putting
his huge hand on the other’s shoulder, he dragged
him back as he was about to plunge his knife into the
little Chevalier.
“I came from the cherry wood there,” said
Arthur. “Maybe you think I ought not to
have run away, and deserted my lady love. Maybe
I’m rather ashamed of my own self, but at any
rate when you speak of it, say that I came back of
my own accord. I’m not a bit afraid to die
now,” and as he spoke he squeezed Agatha’s
hand. His heart was full of apprehension, lest
she should suspect for a moment that he had really
fled from her through fear, but Agatha understood
well his ready wit, and appreciated his more than
boyish courage.
Santerre now made his arrangements for the night.
All the inhabitants of the chateau were kept under
strict surveillance. The Marquis, his daughter,
and the Chevalier were allowed to remain together,
and Denot was prevented from annoying them. At
day-break the following morning Durbelliere was to
be burnt, and Santerre, with his prisoners, would
then proceed to join Westerman at Bressuire.
“Let him slaughter them, if he likes,”
said he to himself, “I don’t care what
he says of me. I am at any rate too well known
to be suspected. I don’t know what came
over me today, but had the Republic depended on it,
I could not have done it,” and he flung himself
down on one of Agatha’s sofas, and slept not
the less soundly for having began his career of extermination
in so vacillating a manner.
The little Chevalier had no intention of saving himself,
and deserting his friends, when, on Santerre’s
approach, he ran off, leaving Agatha and the Marquis
at the garden door of the chateau. He knew that
Chapeau was at the smith’s forge, with his own
pony. He had himself sent him there; and as soon
as he perceived, on running round the side of the
house, that the whole front was occupied by the blues,
his first idea was to go after his pony, and ride
as fast as the animal could carry him to Echanbroignes,
and bring the royalists from thence to the rescue of
their friends at Durbelliere. With this object
he clambered over the garden-wall, and well knowing
every foot of the ground, reached the forge in a few
minutes. Chapeau and the smith were there, as
was also the pony, and a breathless countryman was
already telling them that the chateau was surrounded
by the whole army of blues.
“Here’s the Chevalier,” said Chapeau,
stopping the peasant in his story. “In
the name of Heaven, M. Arthur, what is all this?”
“That traitor, Denot, has brought a parcel of
blues down upon the chateau,” said the Chevalier.
“The Marquis and Mademoiselle Agatha are already
in their hands; they will be murdered before morning.
What is to be done? Oh! Chapeau, what are
we to do to save them?”
