Where is he?”
“Monseigneur,” said a soldier, “he has disappeared.”
“Come, now, old madwoman,” began the commander again, “do not lie.
A sorceress was given in charge to you.
What have you done with her?”
The recluse did not wish to deny all, for fear of awakening suspicion, and replied in a sincere and surly tone,—
“If you are speaking of a big young girl who was put into my hands a while ago, I will tell you that she bit me, and that I released her.
There!
Leave me in peace.”
The commander made a grimace of disappointment.
“Don’t lie to me, old spectre!” said he. “My name is Tristan l’Hermite, and I am the king’s gossip.
Tristan the Hermit, do you hear?” He added, as he glanced at the Place de Greve around him, “‘Tis a name which has an echo here.”
“You might be Satan the Hermit,” replied Gudule, who was regaining hope, “but I should have nothing else to say to you, and I should never be afraid of you.”
“Tete-Dieu,” said Tristan, “here is a crone! Ah! So the witch girl hath fled!
And in which direction did she go?”
Gudule replied in a careless tone,—
“Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”
Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare to set out on the march again.
The recluse breathed freely once more.
“Monseigneur,” suddenly said an archer, “ask the old elf why the bars of her window are broken in this manner.”
This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserable mother.
Nevertheless, she did not lose all presence of mind.
“They have always been thus,” she stammered.
“Bah!” retorted the archer, “only yesterday they still formed a fine black cross, which inspired devotion.”
Tristan east a sidelong glance at the recluse.
“I think the old dame is getting confused!”
The unfortunate woman felt that all depended on her self-possession, and, although with death in her soul, she began to grin.
Mothers possess such strength.
“Bah!” said she, “the man is drunk.
‘Tis more than a year since the tail of a stone cart dashed against my window and broke in the grating.
And how I cursed the carter, too.”
“‘Tis true,” said another archer, “I was there.”
Always and everywhere people are to be found who have seen everything.
This unexpected testimony from the archer re-encouraged the recluse, whom this interrogatory was forcing to cross an abyss on the edge of a knife.
But she was condemned to a perpetual alternative of hope and alarm.
“If it was a cart which did it,” retorted the first soldier, “the stumps of the bars should be thrust inwards, while they actually are pushed outwards.”
“Ho! ho!” said Tristan to the soldier, “you have the nose of an inquisitor of the Chatelet.
Reply to what he says, old woman.”
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, driven to bay, and in a voice that was full of tears in despite of her efforts, “I swear to you, monseigneur, that ‘twas a cart which broke those bars.
You hear the man who saw it.
And then, what has that to do with your gypsy?”
“Hum!” growled Tristan.
“The devil!” went on the soldier, flattered by the provost’s praise, “these fractures of the iron are perfectly fresh.”
Tristan tossed his head.
She turned pale.
“How long ago, say you, did the cart do it?”
“A month, a fortnight, perhaps, monseigheur, I know not.”
“She first said more than a year,” observed the soldier.
“That is suspicious,” said the provost.
“Monseigneur!” she cried, still pressed against the opening, and trembling lest suspicion should lead them to thrust their heads through and look into her cell; “monseigneur, I swear to you that ‘twas a cart which broke this grating.