"Certainly. I have already told you so. One can only escape alone. One can pass when two cannot. Together, we should attract attention. You would be the cause of their capturing me, and I should be the cause of their capturing you."
"Does monseigneur know the country?"
"Yes."
"Will monseigneur go to the rendezvous at the Pierre-Gauvain?"
"To-morrow, at noon."
"I shall be there. We shall be there."
Halmalo interrupted himself.
"Ah! monseigneur, when I think that we were together on the open sea, that we were alone, that I wanted to kill you, that you were my seigneur, that you could have told me so, and that you did not tell me! what a man you are!"
The marquis went on to say,—
"England; there is no other resource. The English must be in France in two weeks."
"I shall have many accounts to give to monseigneur. I have fulfilled his commissions."
"We will talk about that to-morrow."
"Good-bye till to-morrow, monseigneur."
"By the way, are you hungry?"
"Possibly, monseigneur. I was in such haste to reach you that I do not know that I have eaten anything today."
The marquis took a cake of chocolate from his pocket, broke it in two, gave one half to Halmalo, and began to eat the other.
"Monseigneur," said Halmalo, "to your right is the ravine, to your left, the forest."
"Very good. Leave me. Go your way."
Halmalo obeyed. He plunged into the darkness. A sound of brambles crackling was heard, then nothing more. After a few seconds it would have been impossible to retrace his footsteps. This land of the Bocage, rough and inextricable, was the fugitive's aid. People did not disappear there; they vanished. It was this facility for swift passing out of sight which made our armies hesitate before this ever-retreating Vendée, and before its combatants—such formidable fugitives.
