Part 17 (1/2)

My little lady of the Pre Catelan!

Not in a tea-gown from the Rue de la Paix--nothing of that kind whatever; not a ruffle, not a jewel--but clothed in the well-worn garment of a fisher girl of the coast--a coa.r.s.e homespun chemise of linen, open at the throat, and a still coa.r.s.er petticoat of blue, faded by the salt sea--a fisher girl's petticoat that stopped at her knees, showing her trim bare legs and the white insteps of her little feet, incased in a pair of heelless felt slippers.

For the second time I was treated to a surprise. Really, Pont du Sable was not so dead a village after all.

Emile was wrong. She was one of my village people.

My host did not notice my astonishment, but waved his hand courteously.

”_Entrez_, monsieur!” he cried with a laugh, and then, turning sharply, he closed the door and bolted it.

I looked about me.

We were in a rough little room, that would have won any hunter's heart; there were solid racks, heavy with guns, on the walls, a snapping wood fire, and a clean table, laid for dinner, and lastly, the chair quickly drawn to it for the waiting guest. This last they laughingly forced me into, for they both insisted I should dine with them--an invitation which I gladly accepted, for my fears were now completely allayed.

We talked of the neighbourhood, of hunting, of Paris, of the new play at the Nouveautes--I did not mention the Bois. One rarely mentions in France having seen a woman out of her own home, although I was sure she remembered me from a look which now and then came into her eyes that left but little doubt in my mind that she vaguely recalled the incident at the Pre Catelan with the cow.

It was a simple peasant dinner which followed. When it was over, he went to a corner cupboard and drew forth a flat box of long perfectos, which I recognized instantly as the same brand of rare Havanas he had so extravagantly purchased from the Government. If I had had my doubt as to the ident.i.ty of my man it was at rest now.

”You will find them mild,” said he with a smile, as he lifted the tinfoil cover.

”No good cigar is strong,” I replied, breaking the untouched row and bending my head as my host struck a match, my mind more on the scene in the Government's shop than the quality of his tobacco. And yet with all the charm that the atmosphere of his place afforded, two things still seemed to me strange--the absence of a servant, until I realized instinctively the incident of the balky cow, and the prompt bolting of the outside door.

The first I explained to myself as being due to her peasant blood and her ability to help herself; the second to the loneliness of the place and the characters it sometimes harboured. As for my host, I had to admit, despite my mental queries, that his bearing and manner completely captivated me, for a more delightful conversationalist it would have been difficult to find.

Not only did he know the art of eliminating himself and amusing you with topics that pleased you, but his cleverness in avoiding the personal was amazingly skilful. His tact was especially accentuated when, with a significant look at his companion, who at once rose from her seat and, crossing the room, busied herself with choosing the liqueurs from a closet in the corner of the room, he drew me aside by the fire, and in a calm, sotto voce said with intense earnestness:

”You may think it strange, monsieur, that I invited you, that I was even insistent. You, like myself, are a man of the world and can understand.

You will do me a great favour if you will not mention to any one having met either myself or my little housekeeper” (there was not a tremor in his voice), ”who, as you see, is a peasant; in fact, she was born here.

We are not bothered with either friends or acquaintances here, nor do we care for prowlers; you must excuse me for at first taking you for one.

You, of course, know the reputation of La Poche.”

”You could not have chosen a better place to be lost in,” I answered, smiling as discreetly as one should over the confession of another's love affair. ”Moreover, in life I have found it the best policy to keep one's mouth shut. You have my word, monsieur--it is as if we had never met--as if La Poche did not exist.”

”Thank you,” said he calmly, taking the tiny liqueur gla.s.ses from her hands; ”what will you have--cognac or green chartreuse?”

”Chartreuse,” I answered quietly. My eye had caught the labels which I knew to be genuine from the Gren.o.ble printer.

”Ah! you knew it--_Dieu!_ but it is good, that old chartreuse!”

exclaimed my hostess with a rippling laugh as she filled my gla.s.s, ”we are lucky to find it.”

Then something happened which even now sends a cold chill down my spine.

Hardly had I raised my gla.s.s to my lips when there came a sharp, determined rap at the bolted door, and my host sprang to his feet. For a moment no one spoke--I turned instinctively to look at my lady of the Pre Catelan. She was breathing with dilated eyes, her lips drawn and quivering, every muscle of her lithe body trembling. He was standing erect, his head thrown back, his whole body tense. One hand gripped the back of his chair, the other was outstretched authoritatively toward us as if to command our silence.

Again the rapping, this time violent, insistent.

”Who is there?” he demanded, after what seemed to me an interminable moment of suspense.