Murmuring these words he fainted softly in my arms. I tried to carry him, but I had only strength enough to lay him lengthwise on the ground.

Opening his shirt, I discovered the wound; it was in the breast; very small, and bleeding little. I tore my wristbands to pieces and laid them on the wound; I called out, shouted for help. Soon I thought I heard help coming from the side of Tournus, and I recognised M. d'Asterac.

Unexpected as the meeting was, I did not actually feel surprised; too deeply was I the prey of the immense sorrow I felt holding in my arms, dying, that best of all masters.

"What's the matter, my son?" asked the alchemist.

"Help me, sir," I replied, "the Abbe Coignard is dying. Mosaide has killed him."

"It is true," said M. d'Asterac, "that Mosaide has come here in an old chariot in pursuit of his niece, and that I have accompanied him to exhort you, my son, to return to your employment with me. Since yesterday we came near your coach, which we saw break down just now in a rut. At that very moment Mosaide alighted from the carriage, and it may be that he wanted to take a walk, or perhaps he made himself invisible, as he can do. I have not seen him again. It is possible that he has already found his niece to curse her; such is the intention. But he has not killed M. Coignard. It is the Elves, my son, who have killed your master, to punish him for the disclosure of their secrets. Nothing is surer than that."

"Ah! sir," I exclaimed, "what does it matter, if it was the Jew or the Elves who killed him; we must a.s.sist him."

"On the contrary, my son," replied M. d'Asterac, "it is of the greatest importance. For should he have been stricken by a human hand it would be easy for me to cure him by magic operation; but having provoked the Elves he could never escape their infallible vengeance."

As he spoke, M. d'Anquetil and Jahel, having heard my shouts, approached, with the postboy, who carried a lantern.

"What," said Jahel, "is M. Coignard unwell?"

And kneeling close to my good tutor, she raised his head and made him inhale the smell of her salts.

"Mademoiselle," I said to her, "you're the cause of his death, which is the vengeance for your abduction. Mosaide has killed him."

From my dying master she lifted up her face pale with horror and shining with tears.

"And you too," she said, "believe that it's easy to be a pretty girl without causing mischief?"

"Alas!" I replied, "what you say is but too true. But we have lost the best of men."

At this moment Abbe Coignard sighed deeply, opened his eyes, called for his book of Boethius, and fainted again into unconsciousness.

The postboy thought it would be best to carry the wounded man to the village of Vallars, which was only half-a-league distant.

"I'll go," he said, "to fetch the steadiest of the horses which remain.

We'll tie the poor fellow securely on it, and lead it slowly ahead. I think him very ill. He looks exactly like the courier who was murdered at Saint Michel on the same road, at four stages from here, near Senecy, where my sweetheart lives. That poor devil moved his eyelids and turned up the whites of his eyes like a bad woman, saving your presence, gentlemen. And your abbe did the same when mam'selle tickled his nose with her bottle. It's a bad sign with a wounded man; girls don't die of it when they turn their eyes up in that fashion. Your lordships know it well. And there is some distance, thank G.o.d! between the little death and the great. But it's the same turning up of the eyes... Remain, gentlemen, I'll go and fetch the horse."

"This rustic is amusing," said M. d'Anquetil, "with his turned-up eyes and his bad women. I've seen in Italy soldiers who died on the battlefield with a fixed look and eyes starting out of their head. There are no rules for dying of a wound, actually not even in the military service, where exact.i.tude is pushed to the extreme. But will you, Tournebroche, in default of a better qualified person, present me to yonder gentleman in black, who wears diamond studs, and whom I reckon to be M. d'Asterac?"

"Ah! sir," I replied, "consider the presentation to be made. I have no other feelings but to a.s.sist my dear tutor."

"Be it so!" said M. d'Anquetil.

And approaching M. d'Asterac:

"Sir, I have taken your mistress away: I'm ready to answer for my deed."

"Sir," replied M. d'Asterac. "Grace be to heaven! I have no connection with any woman, and do not understand what you mean."

At this very moment the postboy returned with a horse. My dear tutor had slightly recovered. We lifted him up, all four of us, and put him with the greatest difficulty on the horse, where we tied him as securely as possible. And we went off. I held him on one side, M. d'Anquetil on the other. The postboy led the horse and carried the lantern. M. d'Asterac had returned to his carriage. All went well as long as we kept on the highroad; but when it became necessary to climb the small lanes of the vineyards, my dear master, slipping at every movement of the horse, lost the rest of his little strength, and fainted away again. We thought it best to take him off the horse and carry him in our arms. The postboy held him under the arms and I by the legs. The ascent was very rough, and I expected to fall at least four times with my living cross, on the stones of the path. At last the hill became easier. We entered a small lane bordered by bushes, and soon discovered on our left the first roofs of Vallars. We laid our burden softly on the turf, and for a moment took breath. Lifting up the abbe again, we carried him into the village.

A pink light appeared eastwards on the horizon. The morning star, in the pale sky, shone as white and peaceful as the moon, the light crescent of which paled away in the west The birds began to chirp; my master sighed heavily.

Jahel ran before us, knocking at the doors, in quest of a bed and a surgeon. Carrying baskets and panniers the vine-growers went grape-gathering. One of them said to Jahel that Gaulard on the market place lodges man and beast.

"As to the surgeon, Coquebert, you'll see him yonder under the shaving plate which serves as his trade sign. He leaves his house to go to his vineyard."

He was a very polite little man. He told us that he had a bed free in his house, as a short time ago his daughter had got married.

By his order, his wife, a stout dame wearing a white cap covered by a felt hat, put sheets on the bed in the lower chamber. She helped us to undress the Abbe Coignard and to put him to bed. And then she went out to fetch the vicar.

In the meanwhile M. Coquebert examined the wound

"You see," I said, "it's small, and bleeds but little."

"That's not good at all," he replied, "and I do not like it, my dear young gentleman. I like a large wound which bleeds freely."

"I see," said M. d'Anquetil, "that for a leech and a village squirt your test is not a bad one. Nothing is worse than those little but deep wounds which look a mere nothing. Tell me of a nice cut across the face.

It's pleasant to look on, and heals in no time. But know, my good sir, that this wounded man is my chaplain, and plays piquet with me. Are you the man to put him on his legs again, notwithstanding your looks, which are rather those of a vet?"

"At your service," replied the barber-surgeon, bowing profoundly. "But I also set broken bones and treat wounds. I'll examine this one."

"Make haste, sir," I said.

"Patience!" he replied. "First of all the wound must be washed, and I must wait till the water gets warm."

My good tutor, a little restored, said slowly, but with a fairly strong voice:

"Lamp in hand, he'll visit the corners of Jerusalem, and what is hidden in darkness will be brought to light."

"What do you mean, dear master?"

"Don't, my son," he replied; "I'm entertaining the sentiments fit for my state."

"The water is hot," the barber said to me. "Hold the basin close to the bed. I'll wash the wound."

And while he pressed on my tutor's breast a sponge soaked in hot water, the vicar entered the room with Madame Coquebert. He had a basket and a pair of vine shears in his hand.

"Here is then the poor man," said he. "I was going to my vineyard, but that of Jesus Christ has to be attended to first; my son," he said as he approached the stricken abbe, "offer your wound to our Lord. Perhaps it's not so serious as it's thought to be. And for the rest, we must obey G.o.d's will."

Turning to the barber, he asked:

"Is it very urgent, M. Coquebert, or could I go to my vineyard? The white ones can wait; it's not bad if they do get a little overripe, and a little rain would only produce more and better wine. But the red must be gathered at once."

"You speak the truth, Monsieur le Cure," M. Coquebert replied. "I've in my vineyard some grapes which cover themselves with a certain moisture, and which escape the sun only to perish by the rain."

"Alas!" said the vicar, "humidity and drought are the two enemies of the vine-grower."

"Nothing is truer," said the barber, "but I'll inspect the wound."

Having said so he pushed one of his fingers into the wound.