She took her brother's arm, and the pair walked off, not mistaking the opinion they left behind them in the minds of the three persons who had interrupted the scene.Nicolas twice looked back, and twice encountered Blondet's gaze.The journalist continued to watch the tall scoundrel, who was broad in the shoulders, healthy and vigorous in complexion, with black hair curling tightly, and whose rather soft face showed upon its lips and around the mouth certain lines which reveal the peculiar cruelty that characterizes sluggards and voluptaries.Catherine swung her petticoat, striped blue and white, with an air of insolent coquetry.
"Cain and his wife!" said Blondet to the abbe.
"You are nearer the truth than you know," replied the priest.
"Ah! Monsieur le cure, what will they do to me?" said La Pechina, when the brother and sister were out of sight.
The countess, as white as her handkerchief, was so overcome that she heard neither Blondet nor the abbe nor La Pechina.
"It is enough to drive one from this terrestrial paradise," she said at last."But the first thing of all is to save that child from their claws."
"You are right," said Blondet in a low voice."That child is a poem, a living poem."
Just then the Montenegrin girl was in a state where soul and body smoke, as it were, after the conflagration of an anger which has driven all forces, physical and intellectual, to their utmost tension.
It is an unspeakable and supreme splendor, which reveals itself only under the pressure of some frenzy, be it resistance or victory, love or martyrdom.She had left home in a dress with alternate lines of brown and yellow, and a collarette which she pleated herself by rising before daylight; and she had not yet noticed the condition of her gown soiled by her struggle on the grass, and her collar torn in Catherine's grasp.Feeling her hair hanging loose, she looked about her for a comb.At this moment Michaud, also attracted by the screams, came upon the scene.Seeing her god, La Pechina recovered her full strength."Monsieur Michaud," she cried, "he did not even touch me!"
The cry, the look, the action of the girl were an eloquent commentary, and told more to Blondet and the abbe than Madame Michaud had told the countess about the passion of that strange nature for the bailiff, who was utterly unconscious of it.
"The scoundrel!" cried Michaud.
Then, with an involuntary and impotent gesture, such as mad men and wise men can both be forced into giving, he shook his fist in the direction in which he had caught sight of Nicolas disappearing with his sister.
"Then you were not playing?" said the abbe with a searching look at La Pechina.
"Don't fret her," interposed the countess; "let us return to the pavilion."
Genevieve, though quite exhausted, found strength under Michaud's eyes to walk.The countess followed the bailiff through one of the by-paths known to keepers and poachers where only two can go abreast, and which led to the gate of the Avonne.
"Michaud," said the countess when they reached the depth of the wood, "We must find some way of ridding the neighborhood of such vile people; that child is actually in danger of death."
"In the first place," replied Michaud, "Genevieve shall not leave the pavilion.My wife will be glad to take the nephew of Vatel, who has the care of the park roads, into the house.With Gounod (that is his name) and old Cornevin, my wife's foster-father, always at hand, La Pechina need never go out without a protector."
"I will tell Monsieur to make up this extra expense to you," said the countess."But this does not rid us of that Nicolas.How can we manage that?"
"The means are easy and right at hand," answered Michaud."Nicolas is to appear very soon before the court of appeals on the draft.The general, instead of asking for his release, as the Tonsards expect, has only to advise his being sent to the army--"
"If necessary, I will go myself," said the countess, "and see my cousin, de Casteran, the prefect.But until then, I tremble for that child--"
The words were said at the end of the path close to the open space by the bridge.As they reached the edge of the bank the countess gave a cry; Michaud advanced to help her, thinking she had struck her foot against a stone; but he shuddered at the sight that met his eyes.
Marie Tonsard and Bonnebault, seated below the bank, seemed to be conversing, but were no doubt hiding there to hear what passed.
Evidently they had left the wood as the party advanced towards them.
Bonnebault, a tall, wiry fellow, had lately returned to Conches after six years' service in the cavalry, with a permanent discharge due to his evil conduct,--his example being likely to ruin better men.He wore moustachios and a small chin-tuft; a peculiarity which, joined to his military carriage, made him the reigning fancy of all the girls in the valley.His hair, in common with that of other soldiers, was cut very short behind, but he frizzed it on the top of his head, brushing up the ends with a dandy air; on it his foraging cap was jauntily tilted to one side.Compared to the peasants, who were mostly in rags, like Mouche and Fourchon, he seemed gorgeous in his linen trousers, boots, and short waistcoat.These articles, bought at the time of his liberation, were, it is true, somewhat the worse for a life in the fields; but this village cock-of-the-walk had others in reserve for balls and holidays.He lived, it must be said, on the gifts of his female friends, which, liberal as they were, hardly sufficed for the libations, the dissipations, and the squanderings of all kinds which resulted from his intimacy with the Cafe de la Paix.