The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 48

Then Pierre Labarre resumed his search, and an old man was continually seen on all the highways and by-ways of France, entering the humblest cottages and asking, in tremulous tones:

"Do you remember? It was in 1814."

But this was ten years ago. No one had seen two children flying for their lives. How many hopes were based upon a word, and how many disappointments followed!

Finally, he determined to act on the last words of his dying master, and he went to Leigoutte. It was an idea of his own to restore to Leigoutte its old look, the look it had one day long before when Simon Fougere gave him a seat at his fireside, and Jacques looked at the stranger with his big, earnest eyes, while Cinette ran around the room.

The evening of which we write, this old servant of an emigre sat under the trees opposite the school-room. He had gathered the village children about him. Night was coming on, but the spring air was soft and sweet.

He spoke in a low voice, for the authorities of the village might have considered his words as somewhat of an incendiary nature. He said, softly:

"In other days, in Simon Fougere's school, all the children said, 'Vive la France! Vive la Republique!'"

And the little children repeated these words: "Vive la France! Vive la Republique!"

At this moment a strange scene took place on the Square. Two shadows, dimly seen in the twilight, were kneeling before the inn. No one had seen them approach. Pierre Labarre was the first to notice them, and he felt a quick contraction of the heart that heralded some unlooked-for event. He rose quickly, and signed to the children to keep perfectly still. He nearly reached the two unknown without their hearing him. He saw that one was endeavoring to raise the other, who seemed to be infirm. She extended her hand to the inn, and seemed to be saying something, and then the two slowly mounted the steps of the inn.

Pierre, who was very near them, heard a sob. Who could they be? Pierre asked himself. The two strangers were now in the large room, where nothing seemed changed since the day that the wounded soldier leaned against the wall, exhausted by suffering and fatigue. There was the huge chimney, and there the s.h.i.+ning tables.

The infirm woman now walks unaided. She goes straight to the fireplace, and seats herself in a chair. She looks at the door eagerly and expectantly.

Labarre again asked himself who this woman was, and what frightful accident had so injured her. Suddenly, while Labarre was watching her, the woman smiled.

"Ah! you have come, Simon!" she said with a smile, as if speaking to some one who had just come in. "The children are waiting for you, and the soup is ready. Jacques has been good, but you must talk to Cinette--she is a perfect little fiend, sometimes!"

Labarre, with his heart in his mouth, clutched at the wall to prevent himself from falling.

"Come! Cinette--come; you must not be naughty!"

It was plain to Labarre who this person was--he had heard her voice before. But this girl--who was she?

The old man now entered the room. The girl saw him, and said, apologetically:

"Pray, do not scold us--we mean no harm."

"Whoever asks hospitality at this door receives it," answered Labarre.

"But tell who you both are."

Caillette, for it was she, laid her finger on her lips and whispered low:

"She is mad!"

Tears came to the old man's eyes.

"I beg of you," he asked again, "to tell me who this woman is."

"A poor, sick creature, who was once very happy. She has lost her husband and her children, and met with some terrible accident beside."

"But her name?"

"I have not the smallest idea. Cinette always calls her mamma."

"Cinette! Who bears that name?"

"A good little girl in Paris, who earns her bread by singing in the streets. It now seems that she is the sister of Fanfar. It is a very strange sorrow, one fall of sorrow!"

"And Fanfar--whom do you call Fanfar?" asked the old man, with a troubled face.

Caillette started. She remembered that her love had been disdained, but she was kind-hearted, of the stuff of which martyrs are made.

"Fanfar was a foundling. He is now a young man both good and handsome."

"Where have I heard that name?" Labarre said to himself.

Suddenly the woman seated in the chair looked up.

"Excuse the simplicity of the arrangements--the inn does as well as possible."

"Francoise Fougere!" he cried.

Francoise started up, as if sustained by supernatural strength.

"Who calls me?" she cried. "Who is it that speaks my name?"

"Francoise, do you remember Simon, Jacques, Cinette?"

"My children? Yes, yes--I remember them. Where is it that I have just seen them? Oh! yes--I remember. I was all alone. Cinette's little bed was empty, and then the door opened and Jacques came!"

"Is he alive?" cried Labarre.

"Yes," answered Caillette. "They knew each other at once."

"But where is Francine?"

"She has been abducted by the Vicomte de Talizac."

"Talizac!"

Labarre caught at a chair for support. Francoise heard these words.

"Talizac! Oh! the base, cruel man. Quick! we cannot stay here. I must save Francine and Jacques. Oh! my box--where is my box?"

My readers must now learn how Francoise and Caillette found themselves at Leigoutte. They will remember that just as Fanfar recognized in the poor, sick woman the mother whose loss he had so deeply deplored, and in Francine the wors.h.i.+pped little sister whose agonized cries he had heard in the subterranean pa.s.sages among the Vosges, all clue was lost, for Bob.i.+.c.hel vanished, and with him Caillette.

And Gudel's daughter, who loved Fanfar with a love that was without hope, said to him:

"She is your mother. Will you allow me to take care of her?"

Fanfar looked at Caillette with loving, grateful eyes, and then hastened away with Bob.i.+.c.hel and Gudel.