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Where was Marcile? Only Bignold knew. Alive or dead? Only Bignold knew. "Bien, I will do it, m'sieu'," he said to the Governor. "I am to go alone eh?" The Sheriff shook his head. "No, two warders will go with you and myself." A strange look passed over Grassette's face. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he said again: "Bon, I will go."
"God forgive me God save my soul!" he whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now. "Queeck queeck, where is Marcile?" Grassette said, sharply. "Come back, Bignold. Listen where is Marcile?" He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled to be free. "Ten years since I saw her," he whispered.
But it was a new sort of Jacques Grassette who, that morning, spoke to him with the simplicity and eagerness of a child; and the suddenly conceived gift of a pony stallion, which every man in the parish envied Jacques, won Valloir over; and Jacques went "away back" with the first timid kiss of Marcile Valloir burning on his cheek.
"God forgive me God save my soul!" he whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now. "Queeck-queeck, where is Marcile?" Grassette said sharply. "Come back, Bignold. Listen where is Marcile?" He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled to be free. "Ten years since I saw her," he whispered.
Jacques came back one night and found the house empty. Marcile had gone to try her luck with another man. That was the end of the upward career of Jacques Grassette. He went out upon a savage hunt which brought him no quarry, for the man and the woman had disappeared as completely as though they had been swallowed by the sea.
If he went to the Gulch, no one would know or could suspect the true situation, every one would be unprepared for that moment when Bignold and he would face each other and all that would happen then. Where was Marcile? Only Bignold knew. Alive or dead? Only Bignold knew. "Bien, I will do it, m'sieu'," he said to the Governor. "I am to go alone eh?" The Sheriff shook his head.
In all the years that had gone, he had had an ungovernable desire to kill both Bignold and Marcile if he ever met them, a primitive, savage desire to blot them out of life and being. His fingers had ached for Marcile's neck, that neck in which he had lain his face so often in the transient, unforgettable days of their happiness. If she was alive now if she was still alive!
But now, after the first shock and stupefaction, it seemed to go back to where it was before Marcile went from him, gather up the force and intelligence it had then, and come forward again to this supreme moment, with all that life's harsh experiences had done for it, with the education that misery and misdoing give.
The tender sap of youth was in this glowing and alert new world, and, by sudden contrast with the prison walls which he had just left behind, the earth seemed recreated, unfamiliar, compelling, and companionable. Strange that in all the years that had been since he had gone back to his abandoned home to find Marcile gone, the world had had no beauty, no lure for him.
And yet now, under the degradation of his crime and its penalty, and the unmanning influence of being the helpless victim of the iron power of the law, rigid, ugly and demoralising now with the solution of his life's great problem here before him in the hills, with the man for whom he had waited so long caverned in the earth, but a hand-reach away, as it were, his wrongs had taken a new manifestation in him, and the thing that kept crying out in him every moment was, Where is Marcile?
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