"It would be useless now to try to see him, for--he is no longer at the Conciergerie."

"He isn't there? Where is he then?"

"Why, why--I cannot--tell you exactly."

"What! d.a.m.nation! Can't I find out where my brother is?"

"Come, come, my poor Jacques, don't be discouraged," said Sans-Souci; "my friend isn't well posted; we will try to find out something more."

"I tell you again, messieurs, that Edouard Murville is no longer in this prison, and that he must have left Paris before this. Adieu, my good Jacques, take my advice and return to your village; do not try to learn anything more, and forget a brother who is altogether unworthy of you."

The messenger, deeply moved, pressed Jacques's hand, and turned away from the friends, after saying this.

Jacques stood in deep thought; his brow darkened, his glance became more stern. Sans-Souci also was silent; he began to fear that it was not simply for debt that his comrade's brother had been arrested. The two honest fellows dared not communicate their thoughts to each other, and the darkness surprised them seated on the stone bench and lost in their reflections.

"What are we going to do now?" asked Sans-Souci at last; "we are sitting here like two lost sentinels; but we must make up our minds to something."

"Let us hunt for Adeline and her child," said Jacques, in a gloomy voice, "and forget Edouard. I am beginning to fear that the wretch--let us look for Adeline; she will never make me blush."

"Oh! for her I would rush into the hottest fire."

"Poor woman! poor little Ermance! Where are they now? Perhaps her grief at learning that her husband--oh! why did you tell her that, Sans-Souci?"

"Don't mention it. I would to G.o.d that you would use my tongue for a cartridge."

"There is no rest for me until I know what has become of them. Let us search Paris and enquire at every house if necessary; and if we don't find them in this city, let us search the whole of France, towns, hamlets, villages."

"Corbleu! yes, we will go to the devil if necessary! But we will find them, comrade, we will find them, I tell you that."

Jacques and his companion took rooms at a poor inn; they were on foot with the dawn, and scoured every quarter of the city, enquiring everywhere for Adeline and her child; but no one could give them any information concerning the young woman whom they sought. The sight of unfortunate people is so common that little attention is paid to them.

However, sometimes the abode of some poor mother was pointed out to them; they would visit her, and find that she was not the object of their search.

On the eleventh day after their arrival in Paris, Jacques and Sans-Souci were walking on the boulevard, always thinking of Adeline and cudgeling their brains to divine what could have become of her.

Suddenly the people on the sidewalk pressed toward the driveway, seemingly awaiting some curious sight.

"What is going by?" Sans-Souci asked a workman who had stopped near him.

"It's the chain of convicts, starting from Bicetre to go to the galleys at Toulon," was the reply. "See, here, here's the wagon coming now; we shall see them in a minute."

"It is hardly worth while to crowd so to see a parcel of villains," said Sans-Souci.

"They ask for alms on the road."

"If they had any pluck, they would ask to be shot.--Come, Jacques, let's not stay here; I haven't any pity for those fellows."

"I want to stay," said Jacques with emotion; "I want to see them."

The vehicle came forward slowly, and Jacques, impelled by a secret presentiment, drew very near, and took a few sous from his pocket. Soon the convicts were before him; they held out their crime-stained hands, imploring the pity of the pa.s.sers-by. Jacques scrutinized them closely, and noticed one who did not imitate his companions in infamy, but who tried on the contrary to avoid the eyes of the crowd; but the villain with whom he was shackled was one of those who displayed the most effrontery; he jerked him violently, and that movement afforded Jacques an opportunity to see the poor wretch's features; it seemed to him that he recognized his brother. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; and with a movement swifter than thought, he put his hand to his b.u.t.tonhole and removed his decoration, which he instantly thrust into his breast.

The wagon had gone on, and Jacques followed it with his eyes. Sans-Souci pulled his arm.

"Come," he said to him; "how in the devil can you take any pleasure in looking at those beggars?--But what's the matter with you? Your face is all distorted."

"Ah! I am ruined, Sans-Souci! dishonored!"

"You, dishonored! that is impossible; do be reasonable."

"My brother----"

"Well?"

Jacques dared not utter the fatal words; but with his hand he pointed to the chain of convicts, who could still be seen in the distance.

"It wasn't he, my friend, you made a mistake."

"Ah! would to G.o.d I had! But no, it was no mistake; and the words of that kindhearted messenger, his compa.s.sionate air as he spoke to me and shook my hand.--There is no more doubt; I understand everything now."

"Well! even if your brother is a miserable villain, is it your fault?

Did you fight for your country any the less, and thrash its enemies? And have the scars vanished from your face and your breast? Ten thousand million citadels! Who could ever blush for having known you? I will make the man swallow ten inches of my sword!"

"Ah! my name is sullied, my friend. O father! if you knew!"

"Your father is dead; if he was alive, your glory would console him for your brother's shame."

"No, Sans-Souci, consolation for such a calamity is impossible. There is but one thing left for me to do, and that is to overtake those wretched creatures, to find some way to approach the man whom I can no longer call my brother, and to blow his brains out, and then do the same by myself."

"That's a very pretty scheme of yours. But you won't carry it out. You will remember that you have a sister, for that dear Adeline loves you like a brother; you will remember little Ermance, whom you danced on your knees; you will not deprive those poor creatures of the last friend who is left to them; you will forget your grief in order to allay theirs, and with them you will feel that you have not lost everything.--But we shall find them, comrade; we will search every corner of the earth; how do you know that they are not at the farm now, or in some poor cabin where they need our help? and you would leave this world when there are unfortunate mortals here who rely upon you? No, sacrebleu! that shall not be! You surrender, you are touched. Come, Jacques, be brave in grief as you were under fire, and forward march!"

Jacques allowed himself to be persuaded by his comrade, who took advantage of that circ.u.mstance to induce him to leave a city where they had lost all hope of discovering Adeline; and they returned to the farm, still flattering themselves that they would find the young fugitive there.

But that last hope was soon destroyed; the sadness of the peasants left them in no doubt. Jacques insisted upon starting off again at once in search of Adeline and her child, and only with great difficulty did they persuade him to remain one night at the farm. They saw that Brother Jacques was gloomy and melancholy since he had been in Paris; but the peasants attributed his gloom to the non-success of his search.

Sans-Souci made all their preparations for a journey which he thought with good reason would be likely to last a long while. Louise was greatly grieved to have her cousin go away, but she realized that he ought not to abandon his friend. The farmer's wife thrust a well-filled purse into the bag of each of the travellers. It was simply their wages for all the time that they had worked at the farm; but she dared not offer it to them, for she knew that the method that she employed was the best one to avoid a refusal. Kindhearted folk are always shrewd and clever, when it is a question of doing a kind act.

At dawn Jacques was up. Sans-Souci soon joined him. He appeared with his bag over his shoulder, and a stout staff in his hand, and said to his comrade:

"Whenever you are ready, forward march!"

The two friends were about to start. The farmer and his family came forward weeping, to bid them adieu. The children, who had long been accustomed to play with Jacques's moustaches and to roll on the gra.s.s with Sans-Souci, clung to the legs of both travellers, and would not let them go. Louise held a corner of her ap.r.o.n to her eyes, and her sighs said much more than her words. Guillot was no less sorrowful than the rest.

"I say! I'm going to be left alone with my wife, am I?" he said; "what a stupid time I shall have!--Here, comrade Jacques, let me give you a little present for your journey; it may be of some use to you; for you don't know where you may be."

As he spoke, Guillot handed Jacques a pair of small pocket pistols.

"I bought them second-hand in the village not long ago, of an old soldier; my idea was to give 'em to you on your birthday, but so long as you're going away, why take 'em now."

Jacques thanked the honest farmer and accepted his present; then, after embracing everybody, he set forth with Sans-Souci, swearing not to return to the farm without Adeline, and to take no rest until he had found her.