LITMIR.BIZ

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laughed quite loud, tilting his head back. All at once the laugh stopped short and the lieutenant was amazed to see him reel as though he had been hit in the chest. While giving way to his bitter mirth, the rover had caught sight of Arlette's face at the, open window of the lieutenant's room. He sat heavily on the bench and was unable to make a sound. The lieutenant was startled enough to detach the back of his head from the wall to look at him. Peyrol stooped low suddenly, and began to drag the stable fork from its concealment. Then he got on his feet and stood leaning on it, glaring down at Réal, who gazed upwards with languid surprise. Peyrol was asking himself, “Shall I pick him up on that pair of prongs, carry him down and fling him in the sea?” He felt suddenly overcome by a heaviness of arms and a heaviness of heart that made all movement impossible. His stiffened and powerless limbs refused all service. . . . Let Catherine look after her niece. He was sure that the old woman was not very far away. The lieutenant saw him absorbed in examining the points of the prongs carefully. There was something queer about all this.

      “Hallo, Peyrol! What's the matter?” he couldn't help asking.

      “I was just looking,” said Peyrol. “One prong is chipped a little. I found this thing in a most unlikely place.”

      The lieutenant still gazed at him curiously.

      “I know! It was under the bench.”

      “H'm,” said Peyrol, who had recovered some self-control. “It belongs to Scevola.”

      “Does it?” said the lieutenant, falling back again.

      His interest seemed exhausted, but Peyrol didn't move.

      “You go about with a face fit for a funeral,” he remarked suddenly in a deep voice. “Hang it all, lieutenant, I have heard you laugh once or twice, but the devil take me if I ever saw you smile. It is as if you had been bewitched in your cradle.”

      Lieutenant Réal got up as if moved by a spring. “Bewitched,” he repeated, standing very stiff: “In my cradle, eh? . . . No, I don't think it was so early as that.”

      He walked forward with a tense still face straight at Peyrol as though he had been blind. Startled, the rover stepped out of the way and, turning on his heels, followed him with his eyes. The lieutenant paced on, as if drawn by a magnet, in the direction of the door of the house. Peyrol, his eyes fastened on Réal's back, let him nearly reach it before he called out tentatively: “I say, lieutenant!” To his extreme surprise, Réal swung round as if to a touch.

      “Oh, yes,” he answered, also in an undertone. “We will have to discuss that matter to-morrow.”

      Peyrol, who had approached him close, said in a whisper which sounded quite fierce: “Discuss? No! We will have to carry it out to-morrow. I have been waiting half the night just to tell you that.”

      Lieutenant Réal nodded. The expression on his face was so stony that Peyrol doubted whether he had understood. He added:

      “It isn't going to be child's play.” The lieutenant was about to open the door when Peyrol said: “A moment,” and again the lieutenant turned about silently.

      “Michel is sleeping somewhere on the stairs. Will you just stir him up and tell him I am waiting outside? We two will have to finish our night on board the tartane, and start work at break of day to get her ready for sea. Yes, lieutenant, by noon. In twelve hours' time you will be saying good-bye to la belle France.”

      Lieutenant Réal's eyes staring over his shoulder, seemed glazed and motionless in the moonlight like the eyes of a dead man. But he went in. Peyrol heard presently sounds within of somebody staggering in the passage and Michel projected himself outside headlong, but after a stumble or two pulled up, scratching his head and looking on every side in the moonlight without perceiving Peyrol, who was regarding him from a distance of five feet. At last Peyrol said:

      “Come, wake up! Michel! Michel!”

      “Voilà, notre maître.”

      “Look at what I have picked up,” said Peyrol. “Take it and put it away.”

      Michel didn't offer to touch the stable fork extended to him by Peyrol.

      “What's the matter with you?” asked Peyrol.

      “Nothing, nothing! Only last time I saw it, it was on Scevola's shoulder.” He glanced up at the sky.

      “A little better than an hour ago.”

      “What was he doing?”

      “Going into the yard to put it away.”

      “Well, now you go into the yard to put it away,” said Peyrol, “and don't be long about it.” He waited with his hand over his chin till his henchman reappeared before him. But Michel had not got over his surprise.

      “He was going to bed, you know,” he said.

      “Eh, what? He was going. . . . He hasn't gone to sleep in the stable, perchance? He does sometimes, you know.”

      “I know. I looked. He isn't there,” said Michel, very awake and round-eyed.

      Peyrol started towards the cove. After three or four steps he turned round and found Michel motionless where he had left him.

      “Come on,” he cried, “we will have to fit the tartane for sea directly the day breaks.”

      Standing in the lieutenant's room just clear of the open window, Arlette listened to their voices and to the sound of their footsteps diminishing down the slope. Before they had quite died out she became aware of a light tread approaching the door of the room.

      Lieutenant Réal had spoken the truth. While in Toulon he had more than once said to himself that he could never go back to that fatal farmhouse. His mental state was quite pitiable. Honour, decency, every principle forbade him to trifle with the feelings of a poor creature with her mind darkened by a very terrifying, atrocious and, as it were, guilty experience. And suddenly he had given way to a base impulse and had betrayed himself by kissing her hand! He recognized with despair that this was no trifling, but that the impulse had come from the very depths of his being. It was an awful discovery for a man who on emerging from boyhood had laid for himself a rigidly straight line of conduct amongst the unbridled passions and the clamouring falsehoods of revolution which seemed to have destroyed in him all capacity for the softer emotions. Taciturn and guarded, he had formed no intimacies. Relations he had none. He had kept clear of social connections. It was in his character. At first he visited Escampobar because when he took his leave he had no place in the world to go to, and a few days there were a complete change from the odious town. He enjoyed the sense of remoteness from ordinary mankind. He had developed a liking for old Peyrol, the only man who had nothing to do with the revolution — who had not even seen it at work. The sincere lawlessness of the ex-Brother of the Coast was refreshing. That one was neither a hypocrite nor a fool. When he robbed or killed it was not in the name of the sacred revolutionary principles or for the love of humanity.

      Of course Réal had remarked at once Arlette's black, profound and unquiet eyes and the persistent dim smile on her lips, her mysterious silences and the rare sound of her voice which made a caress of every word. He heard something of her story from the reluctant Peyrol who did not care to talk about it. It awakened in Réal more bitter indignation than pity. But it stimulated his imagination, confirmed him in that scorn and angry loathing for the revolution he had felt as a boy and had nursed secretly ever since. She attracted him by her unapproachable aspect. Later he tried not to notice that, in common parlance, she was inclined to hang about him. He used to catch her gazing at him stealthily. But he was free from masculine vanity. It was one day in Toulon that it suddenly dawned on him what her mute interest in his person might mean. He was then sitting outside a café sipping some drink or other with three or four officers, and not listening to their uninteresting conversation. He marvelled that this sort of illumination should come to him like this, under these circumstances; that he should have thought of her while seated in the street with these men round him, in the midst of more or less professional talk! And then it suddenly dawned on him that he had been thinking of nothing but that woman for days.

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