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"And which way did you come? The boat is not in yet?" "By Calais. It was quicker. Now tell me what has happened." Mrs. Costello looked carefully to see that the door was shut. Then she told Maurice who and what she feared, and how she could not even leave Bourg-Cailloux without help. "Yet, I think I ought to leave," she said. "Of course you ought," Maurice answered. "You must go to England."
She gathered from the answers that he had been some time at Bourg-Cailloux, getting gradually more poverty-stricken and utterly disreputable. That he was now wandering about without a home, or money even for gambling.
She was desolated, but had nothing to say against the departure of her lodgers, and, as Lucia had told Maurice, half an hour was enough for the settling of their last affairs at Bourg-Cailloux. Mrs. Costello did not wish to go on board the boat till near the hour named for sailing; it was well, too, that she should have as much rest as possible before her journey.
I used to be very fond of it. I believe now, if I could get out to sit on the beach I should grow much stronger." "Oh, mamma, you must. What is the name of the place? Here it is Bourg-Cailloux. When do you think we can go?" "Not before next week, certainly. Do not make up your mind to that place, for perhaps it may not suit us yet to go there."
Her mother's exile might have ended but for her. Bourg-Cailloux was next day fully decided on for their new residence. From the time of the decision Lucia began to be very busy in preparation for their journey, and for leaving the place where she had been too happy, and too miserable, not to have become attached to it.
Costello had finished writing to her cousin. She was busy with Murray and a map of France; and when Lucia came back she called her. "Come here, I have half decided." "Yes, mamma. Where is it?" "Of course, I cannot be sure. I must make some inquiries; but I think this will do Bourg-Cailloux." Lucia looked where her mother's finger pointed on the map. "Is it a seaport?" she asked.
Claudine, too, had to be left behind with some regret, but they hoped to see Paris again the following year if all should be well. Early one morning they started off once again, a somewhat forlorn pair of travellers, and at three o'clock on a bright afternoon rattled over the rough pavements, on their way to the Hôtel des Bains at Bourg-Cailloux.
Their windows looked out on the "Place," where a brave sea-captain, the hero of Bourg-Cailloux, stood in effigy, and still seemed to keep watch over the place he had once defended, and where, twice a week, the market-women came in their long black cloaks and dazzling caps, and brought heaps of fragrant flowers and early fruit.
Summer came very early that year, and the narrow streets of Bourg-Cailloux were full of the glare and heat of the season. The pavements of white stones, always rough and painful to the feet, were burning hot in the middle of the day, and outside the walls, especially towards the sea, the light coloured, sandy roads were more scorching still.
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