LITMIR.BIZ

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The pursuers urged each other on, and called out to head him off, every time they saw Gaston run from one clump of trees to another.

      Being familiar with the country, young De Clameran was confident of eluding his pursuers. He knew that the next field was a thistle-field, and was separated from the chestnut by a long, deep ditch.

      He resolved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb out at the farther end, while they were looking for him among the trees.

      But he had forgotten the swelling of the river. Upon reaching the ditch, he found it full of water.

      Discouraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across, when three horsemen appeared on the opposite side.

      They were gendarmes who had ridden around the madder-field and chestnut-trees, knowing they could easily catch him on the level ground of the thistle-field.

      At the sight of these three men, Gaston stood perplexed.

      He should certainly be captured if he attempted to run through the field, at the end of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel the ferryman.

      To retrace his steps would be surrendering to the hussars.

      At a little distance on his right was a forest, but he was separated from it by a road upon which he heard the sound of approaching horses. He would certainly be caught there.

      Foes in front of him, foes behind him, foes on the right of him! What was on his left?

      On his left was the surging, foaming river.

      What hope was left? The circle of which he was the centre was fast narrowing.

      Must he, then, fall back upon suicide? Here in an open field, tracked by police like a wild beast, must he blow his brains out? What a death for a De Clameran!

      No! He would seize the one chance of salvation left him: a forlorn, desperate, perilous chance, but still a chance—the river.

      Holding a pistol in either hand, he ran and leaped upon the edge of a little promontory, projecting three yards into the Rhone.

      This cape of refuge was formed by the immense trunk of a fallen tree.

      The tree swayed and cracked fearfully under Gaston’s weight, as he stood on the extreme end, and looked around upon his pursuers; there were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all uttering cries of joy.

      “Do you surrender?” called out the corporal.

      Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances. He was above the park of La Verberie; would he be able to swim there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him?

      He pictured Valentine, at this very moment, watching, waiting, and praying for him on the other shore.

      “For the last time I command you to surrender!” cried the corporal.

      The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the waters which were roaring and rushing around him.

      In a supreme moment like this, with his foot upon the threshold of another world, a man sees his past life rise before him, and seldom does he find cause for self-approval.

      Although death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered which would be the best spot to plunge into, and commended his soul to God.

      “He will stand there until we go after him,” said a gendarme: “so we might as well advance.”

      Gaston had finished his prayer.

      He flung his pistols in the direction of the gendarmes: he was ready.

      He made the sign of the cross, then, with outstretched arms, dashed head foremost into the Rhone.

      The violence of his spring detached the few remaining roots of the old tree; it oscillated a moment, whirled over, and then drifted away.

      The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity; anger seemed to have deserted them in their turn.

      “That is an end of him,” muttered one of the gendarmes. “It is useless for one to fight against the Rhone; his body will be picked up at Arles to-morrow.”

      The hussars seemed really remorseful at the tragic fate of the brave, handsome young man, whom a moment before they had pursued with so much bitter zeal. They admired his spirited resistance, his courage, and especially his resignation, his resolution to die.

      True French soldiers, their sympathies were now all upon the side of the vanquished, and every man of them would have done all in his power to assist in saving the drowning man, and aiding his escape.

      “An ugly piece of work!” grumbled the old quartermaster who had command of the hussars.

      “Bast!” exclaimed the philosophic corporal, “the Rhone is no worse than the court of assizes: the result would be the same. Right about, men; march! The thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old man waiting to hear his son’s fate. I would not be the one to tell him what has happened. March!”

      XIII

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      Valentine knew, that fatal evening, that Gaston would have to walk to Tarascon, to cross the bridge over the Rhone which connected Tarascon with Beaucaire, and did not expect to see him until eleven o’clock, the hour which they had fixed upon the previous evening.

      But, happening to look up at the windows of Clameran, she saw lights hurrying to and fro in an unusual manner, even in rooms that she knew to be unoccupied.

      A presentiment of impending misfortune chilled her blood, and stopped the beatings of her heart.

      A secret and imperious voice within told her that something extraordinary was going on at the chateau of Clameran.

      What was it? She could not imagine; but she knew, she felt, that some dreadful misfortune had happened.

      With her eyes fastened upon the dark mass of stone looming in the distance, she watched the going and coming of the lights, as if their movements would give her a clew to what was taking place within those walls.

      She raised her window, and tried to listen, fancying she could hear an unusual sound, even at such a distance. Alas! she heard nothing but the rushing roar of the angry river.

      Her anxiety grew more insufferable every moment; and she felt as if she would faint were this torturing suspense to last much longer, when the well-known, beloved signal appeared suddenly in Gaston’s window, and told her that her lover was about to swim across the Rhone.

      She could scarcely believe her eyes; she must be under the influence of a dream; her amazement prevented her answering the signal, until it had been repeated three times.

      Then, more dead than alive, with trembling limbs she hastened along the park to the river-bank.

      Never had she seen the Rhone so furious. Since Gaston was risking his life in order to see her, she could no longer doubt that something fearful had occurred at Clameran.

      She fell on her knees, and with clasped hands, and her wild eyes fixed upon the dark waters, besought the pitiless waves to yield up her dear Gaston.

      Every dark object which she could distinguish floating in the middle of the torrent assumed the shape of a human form.

      At one time, she thought she heard, above the roaring of the water, the terrible, agonized cry of a drowning man.

      She watched and prayed, but her lover came not.

      Still she waited.

      While the gendarmes and hussars slowly and silently returned to the chateau of Clameran, Gaston experienced one of those miracles which would seem incredible were they not confirmed by the most

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