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"It is the signal Fouchard's son was to give when he and von Hetzler arrived at the place where I am to meet them. Give me the paper quick! quick! Tear the fastenings, if they will not come undone else. One cannot keep a von Hetzler waiting like a lackey for a scrap of ribbon and a bit of lace." "Pardieu! they have kept better men than he waiting many an hour before this," she made reply.
And as the latter, cornered and unable to maintain silence longer, finally spoke of Father Fouchard's arrest: "Why, to be sure! What a silly thing I am and I was talking of it only this morning! You did well in coming to us, my dear; we must go about your uncle's affair at once and see what we can do for him, for the last news I had was not reassuring.
At the time of Father Fouchard's arrest Jean had escaped a like fate by hiding in the barn, but he was liable to be taken and led away captive at any moment should there be further searches made. She was also anxious as to her uncle's fate, and so she resolved one morning to go to Sedan and see the Delaherches, who had, it was said, a Prussian officer of great influence quartered in their house.
Fouchard's manner was expressive of virtuous indignation. "What, my cattle diseased! why, there's no better meat in all the country; a sick woman might feed on it to build her up!" And he whined and sniveled, thumping himself on the chest and calling God to witness he was an honest man; he would cut off his right hand rather than sell bad meat.
His comrade made no objection and they went off together. Father Fouchard's little farm was situated just at the mouth of Harancourt pass, near the plateau where the artillery was posted.
Cleek, counting on the bolt which kept them from entering the passage from the corridor of the Château Larouge forcing them to take a long, roundabout journey to "The Twisted Arm" had not counted on their shortening that journey by entering the passage from Fouchard's tavern, doing, in fact, the very thing which he had declared to Margot he himself had done.
Consternation was depicted on old Fouchard's face. Appearances notwithstanding, he did love his son, after a fashion of his own. Memories of the past came back to him, of days long vanished, when his wife was still living and Honore was a boy at school, and two big tears appeared in his small red eyes and trickled down his old leathery cheeks. He had not wept before in more than ten years.
And the two of them sat down upon the ground against a stack of rye a little way from the house, and he handed the letter to his cousin. It was the old story: the course of Honore Fouchard's and Silvine Morange's love had not run smooth.
At all events she would be spared the contamination of the factory. And naturally enough it came to pass that in old Fouchard's household the son and heir and the little maid of all work fell in love with each other.
He had only asked to be received at that unusual hour, he said, that he might tell Madame he had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of one of her proteges, a poor operative in the factory who had been arrested on account of a squabble with a Prussian. And Gilberte thereon seized the opportunity to mention Father Fouchard's case.
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