Chapter XXVIII: Most Friendly of Frenchmen

"BUT what made you think of coming to Bitche at all?" asked Roy presently, as he struggled on.

"M'sieu will not ask too many questions? No one at Bitche knew that I had a friend there."

"You don't think I'd betray you, Jean—even if we were retaken? And I hope I'm not going to be."

"The good God grant it, m'sieu."

"How did you know that I was there? Who told you?"

"M'sieu, it was a young lady, not English, who lives under the same roof with m'sieu's friends."

"Mademoiselle de St. Roques?"

"M'sieu has the name—precisely. It was at St. Mihiel."

"I know. We drove there once to see the place."

"Naturellement. St. Mihiel is but seven leagues from Verdun. Mademoiselle de St. Roques had some affair in the place, and she was there for a few days. We chanced to meet—it matters not how,—and when I learned that she was from Verdun, I asked her had she seen M. le Colonel and the tall M. le Capitaine, and the young gentleman with them. Then I found that she knew them all well. And she told me of m'sieu being at Bitche, and the great trouble that it was to those others."

"Did she say—were they all well, Jean?"

Jean answered this question reservedly. M. le Capitaine had been ill, but Mademoiselle had said that it would doubtless make him well, could he but hear good news of the young gentleman at Bitche. Then Jean had offered to go himself to Bitche, and to find out what he might. And the good demoiselle had emptied her pocket of all the money that she had, to enable Jean to go the more quickly.

"And I thought, m'sieu, if I could but compass m'sieu's escape from that terrible Bitche, and might take word that he had gone to England, then Monsieur le Capitaine would have a light heart, and would grow strong once more."

"Jean, you're the best fellow that ever was! Won't they be glad!" panted Roy.

And at length their destination was reached.

On the edge of a little clearing, in the centre of the wood, stood a small charcoal-burner's cottage, built of stone. Near behind it might be seen a good-sized outhouse or woodhouse; and on one side was the pile of slowly burning charcoal. Round and about were heaps of unsightly rubbish and of blackened moss.

Nobody seemed to be at hand. Jean opened the door, and when they were within he bolted it. Roy flung himself upon a small bench, glad to get his breath; while Jean went to a corner, struck a light with flint and steel, and made a dip to burn. The one window was closely shuttered.

"Are we to stop here?" asked Roy. "But if the gendarmes come?"

"We must circumvent them, m'sieu."

Jean produced a blouse, such as would be worn by a French labouring lad, with shirt and trousers to match. "M'sieu must change his clothes."

"All right," assented Roy. He stood up, though the cottage was swimming and his ears were buzzing with fatigue, and promptly divested himself of what he wore, to assume a different guise. Jean then brought a small bottle of dark liquid, which he mixed with water, and dyed Roy's hair and eyebrows, thereby altering his look to such an extent that his own mother might have passed him by. Roy laughed so much under this operation as to discompose the operator.

"Tenez, m'sieu! Taisez-vous donc, s'il vous plait! I assure monsieur it is no matter for laughter."

"If you knew what it was to be free again, you'd laugh too," declared Roy. His merriment passed into a yawn. "But I'm awfully sleepy."

"Monsieur is hungry too."

Monsieur undoubtedly was, though the craving to lie down was the stronger sensation. Jean handed him a hunch of bread and cheese and a glass of milk; and while Roy was busy with the same, he proceeded to array himself in holiday costume. He donned an old and shabby but once gorgeous coat, with stand-up collar and gay buttons, which, as he informed Roy, had many long years before been the best holiday coat of his esteemed grandfather.

"I go to the wedding of my niece," he remarked, with so much satisfaction that, for a moment, Roy really thought he meant it. "Does monsieur perceive? And monsieur will be the boy Joseph, who goes with me in the little cart."

"But where is the cart?"

"All in good time, m'sieu."

Jean rolled the discarded clothes into a bundle, with which he disappeared. Roy conjectured that he might have buried it in the bushes or under heaps of black rubbish outside. Jean then led him into the outhouse, which was more than two-thirds full of heavy logs and fagots of wood—the winter supply, piled together.

"Am I to get underneath all that, Jean?"

"Oui, m'sieu. The gendarmes will not readily find you there. I meanwhile betake myself to the soupente."

The soupente in a French cottage is a kind of upper cupboard, a small corner cut off from the one room, near the ceiling, descending only half-way to the ground, and reached by a ladder.

"And if they find you there?"

"M'sieu, they will not know me in this dress. See—I am not the Jean who chopped wood at Bitche. And I hope then to draw their attention from m'sieu."

Roy wrung his hand. "I don't know what makes you so good to me," the boy said huskily.

"It is not difficult to tell m'sieu why." Jean looked abstractedly at the roof of the wood-hut. "It is for the sake of that kind M. le Capitaine, who would not leave my mother unhappy. Does m'sieu remember how M. le Capitaine regarded my mother that day?"

Roy remembered, and understood.

Jean hauled aside logs and masses of wood, making a little cave far back, where Roy could creep in and lie close to the wall. Jean wrapped round him an old coat, for warmth, and, when he had laid himself down, threw light black rubbish over him as an additional security. After which he carefully heaped up anew the logs and fagots, till not the faintest sign remained of any human being beneath.

"M'sieu must lie still," Jean said, when he had effaced every token that the wood-pile had been disturbed. "On no account must m'sieu move or speak. If by chance I should have to go away, m'sieu must wait till nightfall, when the cart will come to take m'sieu on his way."

"But, I say, Jean, you mustn't get into trouble for me," called Roy, his voice sounding muffled.

"Bien, m'sieu. Trust Jean to do his best. Can m'sieu breathe?"

"Rather stuffy, but it's all right."

"Au revoir, m'sieu. I go to the soupente."

Then silence. Jean returned to the cottage, where he rinsed the basin which had been used for dyeing purposes, put things straight, unbolted the front door, and climbed into the soupente, drawing the ladder after him. There he laid himself flat, and was, or pretended to be, sound asleep.

Roy's sleep was no pretence. Despite his hard bed and the stuffiness of the air which he had to breathe, despite fear of gendarmes and risks of discovery, he forgot himself for a couple of hours.

Something roused him then. In a moment he was wide awake, his heart thumping unpleasantly against his side. The gendarmes had come!

Roy could see nothing; he could only hear; and he heard more than might have been expected from his position. The men made a good deal of noise, after the manner of gendarmes; and Roy's senses were quickened by the exigency of the moment.

First they went into the cottage, finding the door on the latch, which fact allayed their suspicions, as Jean had intended. They marched round the room, knocking things about a little; and one of them took a good look at the soupente. But not seeing the ladder, and not really suspecting the fugitives of being here, he did not trouble himself further.

Then they walked to the bûcher. One gendarme knocked down a few fagots, and another pulled at a log. To Roy it sounded as if they were making their way into where he lay. But after what he felt to be a century of suspense, they left the outhouse. He heard them mount their horses and trot off.

"Safe!" murmured Roy, and in his heart was a fervent "Thank God!"

Presently he dropped asleep again, and knew no more for hours. When he woke he had the consciousness, which one often has after long sleep, of a considerable time having passed; yet whether it was now morning or afternoon or evening he could not tell. To sleep more was not possible. He was growing frightfully weary of his constrained position. A voice at length sounded near.

"M'sieu!"

"All right," called Roy.

"Can m'sieu wait a little longer? It is not safe to move till after dark."

"I'll wait, Jean. Only, as soon as you can, please."

The wisdom of Jean's caution became evident. Before darkness settled down, the same party of gendarmes galloped up once more. As before, they walked through cottage and shed, kicking the furniture about, knocking down some logs, and using rough language about the escaped prisoner, which boded no gentle treatment for Roy, should he fall into their clutches. But the search was perfunctory, and soon they vanished, silence following their departure.

One more hour Roy had to endure. Then came the welcome sound of Jean removing the wood-piles.

"Can m'sieu stand?"

Roy crept out, made the attempt, and fell flat. Jean pulled him up, and held him on his feet.

"I'm only stiff," declared Roy. "They won't come again now, I suppose. And they didn't find you?"

"Non, m'sieu. I was in the wood this last time."

"It is night, I declare! Now I can walk," and Roy managed to reach the cottage on his own limbs. "What a long day it has been! But as if that mattered—as if anything mattered—only to get away safely! Jean, you are a good fellow. Is this for me to eat? I'm as hungry as a bear. Jean, I shall always think better of Frenchmen for your sake."

"Yet m'sieu will doubtless fight us one day."

"I shall fight Buonaparte. Not the French nation. I like some of your people awfully. Lots of French have been as good and kind to us détenus as possible. Only I don't like Boney."

"Cependant, m'sieu, the Army of the Emperor is made of French soldiers."

"Can't help that," retorted Roy. "And they can't help it either, poor fellows! I say, this cheese is uncommonly good. How did you manage to hide it from the gendarmes? Jean, were you long at Bitche? Tell me all about it."

Jean evidently preferred not to enter into details. It was better for Roy's own sake that he should not know too much.

It appeared, however, that on Jean's arrival at Bitche he had found one of the gendarmes to be an old acquaintance; and through this man he had obtained a temporary post in the fortress. A man who did rough work, such as chopping and carrying wood, had fallen ill; and Jean was allowed to undertake his duties.

This gave him an opportunity to study the fortress, to make himself acquainted with the surrounding country, and to mature his plans. How far his friend had a hand in the matter, he did not reveal. He had held carefully aloof from Roy himself, till matters were ripe. Then he contrived to be sent into the yard, just at the right time. The rest Roy knew.

"Why was I put into that cell?" asked Roy.

"M'sieu, there were doubtless reasons. It is sometimes best that one should not understand everything," meditatively observed Jean. "What if—perhaps—somebody had known of the intended escape, and had tried by such means to save m'sieu from danger?"

"Was it you, Jean?"

"Non, m'sieu." But whether Jean spoke the truth, whether he might or might not have had a hand in the wirepulling which had led to that event, Roy could not know. He had but to be thankful that he was free.

After darkness had some time set in, a rough little cart, drawn by a rough little pony, and driven by a charcoal-burner, came to the door. Then he and Jean started, taking with them a small lantern.

The next stage of the journey meant quicker and easier advance than that of the previous night. The pony was strong and willing; and all through the hours of darkness they were getting further and further away from Bitche. By dawn of day the fear of pursuit was immensely lessened. Even if the gendarmes had overtaken them, they would hardly have suspected the odd figure in a smart old coat and ancient cocked hat to be the temporary wood-chopper at Bitche, or the black-haired boy in a rough blouse to be their prisoner, Roy Baron.

For greater safety, both that day and next, they found a retired spot in which to hide, letting the pony loose to browse on some rough ground, or putting up it and the cart at a wayside inn, and calling there later. One way and another the dreaded pursuit was eluded; and as day after day went by, Roy felt himself indeed nearer home.