The mountaineers were silent; suddenly the priest's dog started and p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. At the same moment the report of a gun echoed through the glen, and a white partridge, such as is sometimes to be seen in the mountains after a severe Winter, fell fluttering at the feet of the Cure. Then followed a crashing of underwood and a sound of rapid footsteps, and in another moment a gentleman appeared, parting the bushes and escorting a young lady who held the train of her hunting-habit thrown across her arm. The gentleman was laughing loudly, but the lady looked pale and distressed, and running towards the group under the chestnut-trees, took up the wounded bird and kissed it tenderly, exclaiming:--

"Ah, M. le Cure, _you_ would not have killed the pretty creature if I had begged its life, would you?"

The priest coloured crimson.

"Madame," said he, falteringly, "this partridge is wounded in the wing, but is not dead. Who shot it?"

The young lady looked reproachfully at the gentleman; the gentleman shrugged his shoulders and laughed again, but less heartily than before.

"Oh, _mea culpa_!" he said, lightly. "I am the culprit, Monsieur l'Abbe."

CHAPTER II.

The Storm.

The Baron de Pradines, late of the Royal Musketeers and now captain in the Auvergne Dragoons, was small and fair, like his sister, and about thirty-five years of age. He looked, however, some years older, pale, _ennuye_, and languid--as might be expected in a man who had spent a dissipated youth in the gayest court of Europe.

Madame de Peyrelade, on the contrary, was scarcely changed since Jacques had last seen her. She was then sixteen; she was now five-and-twenty; and, save in a more melancholy expression, a sadder smile, and a bearing more dignified and self-possessed, the good herdsman told himself that nine years had left no trace of their flight over the head of "_la belle Marguerite_." The Countess, being still in mourning, wore a riding-dress of grey cloth ornamented with black velvet, with a hat and plume of the same colours. Thus attired, she so strongly resembled the portraits of her namesake, the beautiful Marguerite de Navarre, that one might almost have fancied she had just stepped out of the canvas upon that wild precipice amidst a group of still wilder mountaineers, such as Salvator loved to paint.

There were some minutes of uneasy silence. The wondering herdsmen had retreated into a little knot; the captain bit his glove, and glanced at his sister under his eyelashes; the Countess tapped her little foot impatiently upon the ground; and the Cure of St. Saturnin, with an awkward a.s.sumption of indifference, bent his sallow face over the wounded partridge, which was nestled within the folds of his black serge ca.s.sock.

"_Mordieu!_ sister," exclaimed the Baron, with his unpleasant laugh, "are we all struck dumb at this woeful catastrophe--this woodland tragedy? Being the culprit, I am, however, ready to throw myself at your feet. You prayed to me for mercy just now, for a white partridge, and I denied it. I now entreat it for myself, having offended you."

The Countess, smiling somewhat sadly, held out her hand, which the dragoon kissed with an air of profound respect.

"George," she said, "I am foolishly superst.i.tious about these white partridges. A person who was very dear to me gave me once upon a time a white partridge. One day it escaped. Was it an evil omen? I know not; but I never saw that person again."

The young man frowned impatiently, and, changing the conversation, exclaimed, with a disdainful movement of the head:--

"We have the honour, Madame, to be the object of your herdsmen's curiosity all this time. The fellows, I should imagine, would be more fitly occupied among their cows. Or is it the custom on your estates, my amiable sister, that these people should pa.s.s their time in idleness.

A word to the steward would not, methinks, be altogether out of place on this subject."

The herdsmen shrank back at these words, which, though uttered in the purest French of Versailles, were sufficiently intelligible to their ears; but the Countess, with a kindly smile, and a quick glance towards the priest, undertook their defence.

It was holiday, she said, doubtless in consequence of his own arrival in Auvergne; and besides, did he not see that M. the good Cure has been delivering to them some pious exhortation, as was his wont?

The priest blushed and bowed, and made an inward resolution of penance that same night, for partic.i.p.ation in that innocent falsehood. It was his first sin against truth.

At this moment the lady, looking towards the little group of men, recognized Pere Jacques.

"If I do not mistake," she exclaimed, making use of the mountain _patois_, "I see one of my oldest friends yonder--a herdsman who used to be in my father's service! Pere Jacques, is it really you?"

The herdsman stepped forward eagerly.

"Ah, Mam'selle Marguerite," he stammered, "is it possible that--that you remember me?"

And he scarcely dared to touch with his lips the gloved hand that his mistress gave him to kiss.

"George," said the Countess, "do you not remember Pere Jacques?"

"Ah!--yes," replied the Baron, carelessly; adding, half aloud, "my dear sister, do not let us stay here talking with these boors."

"Nay, brother, this place is not Versailles, _Dieu merci!_ Let me talk a little with my old friend--he reminds me of the days when I was so happy."

"And so poor," muttered the dragoon between his teeth, as he turned away and began talking _cha.s.se_ with the Cure of St. Saturnin.

"And now tell me, Pere Jacques," said the young Countess, seating herself at the foot of a chestnut-tree, "why have you left the chateau de Pradines?"

"You were there no longer, Madame," said the mountaineer, standing before her in a respectful att.i.tude.

"But I was not here either."

"True; but Madame might, some day, grow weary of the court; and I knew that sooner or later she would come to Auvergne. Besides, here I worked on Madame's property, and ate of her bread."

"Poor Pere Jacques! you also think sometimes of the old days at Pradines?"

"Sometimes!--it seems as if it were but yesterday, Mam'selle, that I carried you in my arms, and ran beside you when you rode Fifine, the black pony, and heard your laugh in the courtyard and your foot in the garden! Ah, Madame, those were the happy times, when the hunt came round, and Monsieur your father, and yourself, and Monsieur the Chevalier de Fon----. Oh, pardon, Madame! pardon!--what have I said!"

And the herdsmen stopped, terrified and remorseful; for at that name the lady had turned deathly white.

"Hush, my good friend," she said, falteringly. "It is nothing." Then, after at brief pause and a rapid glance towards her brother and the priest, "Come nearer, Jacques," she said, in a subdued tone. "One word--_Was the body ever discovered?_"

"No, Madame."

She shaded her face with her hand, and so remained for some moments without speaking. She then resumed in a low voice:--

"A terrible death, Jacques! He must have fallen down some precipice."

"Alas! Madame, it may have been so."

"Do you remember the last day that we all hunted together at Pradines?

The anniversary of that day comes round again to-morrow. Poor Eugene!...

Take my purse, Pere Jacques, and share its contents with your companions--but reserve a louis to purchase some ma.s.ses for the repose of his soul. Say that they are for your friend and benefactor--for he was always good to you. He has often spoken of you to me. Will you promise me this, Pere Jacques?"

The herdsman was yet a.s.suring her of his obedience, when the priest and her brother came forward and interrupted them.

"My dear sister," said M. de Pradines, "the sun is fast going down, and we have but another hour of daylight. Our friend here, M. le Cure, apprehends a storm. It were best we rejoined our huntsmen, and began to return."

"A storm, _mon frere_," said Madame de Peyrelade with surprise.

"Impossible! The sky is perfectly clear. Besides, it is so delightful under these old trees--I should like to remain a short time longer."

"It might be imprudent, Madame la Comtesse," said the Cure timidly, as he cast a hurried glance along the horizon. "Do you not see those light vapours about the summit of Mont Cantal, and that low bank of clouds behind the forest? I greatly mistake if we have not a heavy storm before an hour, and I should counsel you to take the road for the chateau without delay."

"Come hither, Pere Jacques," said the lady, smiling, "you used to be my oracle at Pradines. Will there be a storm to-night?"

The old mountaineer raised his head, and snuffed the breeze like a stag-hound.