第 45 页

atmosphere he breathed.

"What will you say to Barthes?" he asked his brother. "The poor fellow

must necessarily be warned. Exile is at any rate preferable to

imprisonment."

Pierre sadly waved his hand. "Yes, of course, I must warn him. But what a

painful task it is!"

Guillaume made no rejoinder, for at that very moment, in that remote,

deserted nook, where they could fancy themselves at the world's end, a

most extraordinary spectacle was presented to their view. Something or

rather someone leapt out of a thicket and bounded past them. It was

assuredly a man, but one who was so unrecognisable, so miry, so woeful

and so frightful, that he might have been taken for an animal, a boar

that hounds had tracked and forced from his retreat. On seeing the

rivulet, he hesitated for a moment, and then followed its course. But,

all at once, as a sound of footsteps and panting breath drew nearer, he

sprang into the water, which reached his thighs, bounded on to the

further bank, and vanished from sight behind a clump of pines. A moment

afterwards some keepers and policemen rushed by, skirting the rivulet,

and in their turn disappearing. It was a man hunt that had gone past, a

fierce, secret hunt with no display of scarlet or blast of horns athwart

the soft, sprouting foliage.

"Some rascal or other," muttered Pierre. "Ah! the wretched fellow!"

Guillaume made a gesture of discouragement. "Gendarmes and prison!" said

he. "They still constitute society's only schooling system!"

Meantime the man was still running on, farther and farther away.

When, on the previous night, Salvat had suddenly escaped from the

detectives by bounding into the Bois de Boulogne, it had occurred to him

to slip round to the Dauphine gate and there descend into the deep ditch*

of the city ramparts. He remembered days of enforced idleness which he

had spent there, in nooks where, for his own part, he had never met a

living soul. Nowhere, indeed, could one find more secret places of

retreat, hedged round by thicker bushes, or concealed from view by

loftier herbage. Some corners of the ditch, at certain angles of the

massive bastions, are favourite dens or nests for thieves and lovers.

Salvat, as he made his way through the thickest of the brambles, nettles

and ivy, was lucky enough to find a cavity full of dry leaves, in which

he buried himself to the chin. The rain had already drenched him, and

after slipping down the muddy slope, he had frequently been obliged to

grope his way upon all fours. So those dry leaves proved a boon such as

he had not dared to hope for. They dried him somewhat, serving as a

blanket in which he coiled himself after his wild race through the dank

darkness. The rain still fell, but he now only felt it on his head, and,

weary as he was, he gradually sank into deep slumber beneath the

continuous drizzle. When he opened his eyes again, the dawn was breaking,

and it was probably about six o'clock. During his sleep the rain had

ended by soaking the leaves, so that he was now immersed in a kind of

chilly bath. Still he remained in it, feeling that he was there sheltered

from the police, who must now surely be searching for him. None of those

bloodhounds would guess his presence in that hole, for his body was quite

buried, and briers almost completely hid his head. So he did not stir,

but watched the rise of the dawn.

* This ditch or dry moat is about 30 feet deep and 50 feet wide.

The counterscarp by which one may descend into it has an angle

of 45 degrees.--Trans.

When at eight o'clock some policemen and keepers came by, searching the

ditch, they did not perceive him. As he had anticipated, the hunt had

begun at the first glimmer of light. For a time his heart beat violently;

however, nobody else passed, nothing whatever stirred the grass. The only

sounds that reached him were faint ones from the Bois de Boulogne, the

ring of a bicyclist's bell, the thud of a horse's hoofs, the rumble of

carriage wheels. And time went by, nine o'clock came, and then ten

o'clock. Since the rain had ceased falling, Salvat had not suffered so

much from the cold, for he was wearing a thick overcoat which little

Mathis had given him. But, on the other hand, hunger was coming back;

there was a burning sensation in his stomach, and leaden hoops seemed to

be pressing against his ribs. He had eaten nothing for two days; he had

been starving already on the previous evening, when he had accepted a

glass of beer at that tavern at Montmartre. Nevertheless, his plan was to

remain in the ditch until nightfall, and then slip away in the direction

of the village of Boulogne, where he knew of a means of egress from the

wood. He was not caught yet, he repeated, he might still manage to

escape. Then he tried to get to sleep again, but failed, so painful had

his sufferings become. By the time it was eleven, everything swam before

his eyes. He once nearly fainted, and thought that he was going to die.

Then rage gradually mastered him, and, all at once, he sprang out of his

leafy hiding-place, desperately hungering for food, unable to remain

there any longer, and determined to find something to eat, even should it

cost him his liberty and life. It was then noon.

On leaving the ditch he found the spreading lawns of the chateau of La

Muette before him. He crossed them at a run, like a madman, instinctively

going towards Boulogne, with the one idea that his only means of escape

lay in that direction. It seemed miraculous that nobody paid attention to

his helter-skelter flight. However, when he had reached the cover of some

trees he became conscious of his imprudence, and almost regretted the

sudden madness which had borne him along, eager for escape. Trembling

nervously, he bent low among some furze bushes, and waited for a few

minutes to ascertain if the police were behind him. Then with watchful

eye and ready ear, wonderful instinct and scent of danger, he slowly went

his way again. He hoped to pass between the upper lake and the Auteuil

race-course; but there were few trees in that part, and they formed a

broad avenue. He therefore had to exert all his skill in order to avoid

observation, availing himself of the slenderest stems, the smallest

bushes, as screens, and only venturing onward after a lengthy inspection

of his surroundings. Before long the sight of a guard in the distance

revived his fears and detained him, stretched on the ground behind some

brambles, for a full quarter of an hour. Then the approach first of a

cab, whose driver had lost his way, and afterwards of a strolling

pedestrian, in turn sufficed to stop him. He breathed once more, however,

when, after passing the Mortemart hillock, he was able to enter the

thickets lying between the two roads which lead to Boulogne and St.

Cloud. The coppices thereabouts were dense, and he merely had to follow

them, screened from view, in order to reach the outlet he knew of, which

was now near at hand. So he was surely saved.

But all at once, at a distance of some five and thirty yards, he saw a

keeper, erect and motionless, barring his way. He turned slightly to the

left and there perceived another keeper, who also seemed to be awaiting

him. And there were more and more of them; at every fifty paces or so

stood a fresh one, the whole forming a _cordon_, the meshes as it were of

a huge net. The worst was that he must have been perceived, for a light

cry, like the clear call of an owl, rang out, and was repeated farther

and farther off. The hunters were at last on the right scent, prudence

had become superfluous, and it was only by flight that the quarry might

now hope to escape. Salvat understood this so well that he suddenly began

to run, leaping over all obstacles and darting between the trees,

careless whether he were seen or heard. A few bounds carried him across

the Avenue de St. Cloud into the plantations stretching to the Allee de

la Reine Marguerite. There the undergrowth was very dense; in the whole

Bois there are no more closely set thickets. In summer they become one

vast entanglement of verdure, amidst which, had it been the leafy season,

Salvat might well have managed to secrete himself. For a moment he did

find himself alone, and thereupon he halted to listen. He could neither

see nor hear the keepers now. Had they lost his track, then? Profound

quietude reigned under the fresh young foliage. But the light, owlish cry

arose once more, branches cracked, and he resumed his wild flight,

hurrying straight before him. Unluckily he found the Allee de la Reine

Marguerite guarded by policemen, so that he could not cross over, but had

to skirt it without quitting the thickets. And now his back was turned

towards Boulogne; he was retracing his steps towards Paris. However, a

last idea came to his bewildered mind: it was to run on in this wise as

far as the shady spots around Madrid, and then, by stealing from copse to

copse, attempt to reach the Seine. To proceed thither across the bare

expanse of the race-course and training ground was not for a moment to be

thought of.

So Salvat still ran on and on. But on reaching the Allee de Longchamp he

found it guarded like the other roads, and therefore had to relinquish

his plan of escaping by way of Madrid and the river-bank. While he was

perforce making a bend alongside the Pre Catelan, he became aware that

the keepers, led by detectives, were drawing yet nearer to him, confining

his movements to a smaller and smaller area. And his race soon acquired

all the frenzy of despair. Haggard and breathless he leapt mounds, rushed

past multitudinous obstacles. He forced a passage through brambles, broke

down palings, thrice caught his feet in wire work which he had not seen,

and fell among nettles, yet picked himself up went on again, spurred by

the stinging of his hands and face. It was then Guillaume and Pierre saw

him pass, unrecognisable and frightful, taking to the muddy water of the

rivulet like a stag which seeks to set a last obstacle between itself and

the hounds. There came to him a wild idea of getting to the lake, and

swimming, unperceived, to the island in the centre of it. That, he madly

thought, would be a safe retreat, where he might burrow and hide himself

without possibility of discovery. And so he still ran on. But once again

the sight of some guards made him retrace his steps, and he was compelled

to go back and back in the direction of Paris, chased, forced towards the

very fortifications whence he had started that morning. It was now nearly

three in the afternoon. For more than two hours and a half he had been

running.

At last he saw a soft, sandy ride for horsemen before him. He crossed it,

splashing through the mire left by the rain, and reached a little

pathway, a delightful lovers' lane, as shady in summer as any arbour. For

some time he was able to follow it, concealed from observation, and with

his hopes reviving. But it led him to one of those broad, straight

avenues where carriages and bicycles, the whole afternoon pageant of

society, swept past under the mild and cloudy sky. So he returned to the

thickets, fell once more upon the keepers, lost all notion of the

direction he took, and even all power of thought, becoming a mere thing

carried along and thrown hither and thither by the chances of the pursuit

which pressed more and more closely upon him. Star-like crossways

followed one upon other, and at last he came to a broad lawn, where the

full light dazzled him. And there he suddenly felt the hot, panting

breath of his pursuers close in the rear. Eager, hungry breath it was,

like that of hounds seeking to devour him. Shouts rang out, one hand

almost caught hold of him, there was a rush of heavy feet, a scramble to

seize him. But with a supreme effort he leapt upon a bank, crawled to its

summit, rose again, and once more found himself alone, still running on

amid the fresh and quiet greenery.

Nevertheless, this was the end. He almost fell flat upon the ground. His

aching feet could no longer carry him; blood was oozing from his ears,

and froth had come to his mouth. His heart beat with such violence that

it seemed likely to break his ribs. Water and perspiration streamed from

him, he was miry and haggard and tortured by hunger, conquered, in fact,

more by hunger than by fatigue. And through the mist which seemed to have

gathered before his wild eyes, he suddenly saw an open doorway, the

doorway of a coach-house in the rear of a kind of chalet, sequestered

among trees. Excepting a big white cat, which took to flight, there was

not a living creature in the place. Salvat plunged into it and rolled

over on a heap of straw, among some empty casks. He was scarcely hidden

there when he heard the chase sweep by, the detectives and the keepers

losing scent, passing the chalet and rushing in the direction of the

Paris ramparts. The noise of their heavy boots died away, and deep

silence fell, while the hunted man, who had carried both hands to his

heart to stay its beating, sank into the most complete prostration, with

big tears trickling from his closed eyes.

Whilst all this was going on, Pierre and Guillaume, after a brief rest,

had resumed their walk, reaching the lake and proceeding towards the

crossway of the Cascades, in order to return to Neuilly by the road

beyond the water. However, a shower fell, compelling them to take shelter

under the big leafless branches of a chestnut-tree. Then, as the rain

came down more heavily and they could perceive a kind of chalet, a little

cafe-restaurant amid a clump of trees, they hastened thither for better

protection. In a side road, which they passed on their way, they saw a

cab standing, its driver waiting there in philosophical fashion under the

falling shower. Pierre, moreover, noticed a young man stepping out

briskly in front of them, a young man resembling Gerard de Quinsac, who,

whilst walking in the Bois, had no doubt been overtaken by the rain, and

like themselves was seeking shelter in the chalet. However, on entering

the latter's public room, the priest saw no sign of the gentleman, and