Monsieur Raoul, in his carriage, was making the round of the estates. To a certain extent, this was a frequent custom, but there were times when it was attended by a more deliberate ceremony and purpose, and such was the case this morning. The carriage went slowly, as if on a tour of inspection. When it passed men, they gave a ready “Good-day.” Where the white-capped women were not at work, they came smiling to their doorways on hearing the familiar noise of wheels, sometimes holding up their children that they, too, might look at M. Raoul. Evidently he was a great personage, although you might not have guessed it.
As for the estate, to the eye it was all that could be desired. The land, it was true, was flat, but so rich and so highly cultivated that, except the meadows, not a foot but appeared to grow crops. Vineyards caught the hot sun on ripening grapes; apple orchards surrounded cottages; the beauty was glowing, tranquil, a little substantial. Through the heart of the country flowed a broad river, offering excellent fishing, and in places bordered with orderly poplars; on one side was a high bank; the only hill was insignificant, and rose behind the château. It was possible to conceive an ugly air of desolation abroad in winter, but in autumn, and autumn as yet untouched by decay, there was a delightful fresh gaiety in the bounty of the land. At one spot where the carriage arrived in sight of the river, M. Raoul craned his neck forward, but made no remark.
The tour of the cottages accomplished, the carriage turned homeward. When it reached a point where a narrow path broke away, M. Raoul waved his hand in that direction.
“There!” he said, determinedly.
The carriage came to a stand-still. The driver turned doubtfully and scratched his head.
“But, monsieur—” he remonstrated.
M. Raoul interrupted him in a still more peremptory tone.
“There!”
“But monsieur remembers that Madame de Beaudrillart especially said—”
For the third time the one word shot out:
“There!”
Jean scratched his head again, looked round helplessly, and then stared at the sky. Finding no suggestion for extricating himself from the dilemma, he ended by submitting to M. Raoul’s order, and, with a sigh of perplexity, turned in the direction indicated. He had lived long enough at Poissy to have learned that it was often difficult to reconcile opposing wills, and that, as they were strong, there was always the risk of being crushed by them. Moreover, he was not without hope. The way they had taken was scarcely wide enough for the carriage—branches whipped their faces, and they were bumped relentlessly over the rough ground. Jean groaned loudly, and glanced back at his master to see how he liked it. But M. Raoul showed no sign of discomfiture; he sat erect, smiling, and now and then flourishing something which he held tightly grasped in his hand. Presently they reached a grassy opening enclosed with trees. The carriage halted, and Jean advanced towards it, reins in hand.
“Monsieur sees for himself that we can go no farther.”
M. Raoul did not give him time to reach him. Before Jean could realise what he was doing, he had slipped out of the carriage on the opposite side, and plunged into an undergrowth of bushes which clothed a steep bank, and crept down to the river. Jean made an ineffectual effort to follow and stop him, but the smal