“Gilbert,” said he, “I’ve had a blow.  The day after I got to Paris I heard from Lady Cynthia.  She’s going to be married to a countryman of yours.”

Gustave looked very doleful.  I murmured condolence, though in truth I cared, just then, not a straw about the matter.

“So,” he continued, “I seized the first opportunity for a little change.”

There was a pause.  Gustave’s mournful eye ranged over the landscape.  Then he said, in a patient, sorrowful voice: 

“You said the duchess was at home?”

“Yes, she’s at home now.”

“Ah!  I ask again, because as I passed the inn on the way between here and Pontorson I saw in the courtyard—­”

“Yes, yes, what?” cried I in sudden eagerness.

“What’s the matter, man?  I saw a carriage with some luggage on it, and it looked like the duke’s, and—­Hallo!  Gilbert, where are you going?”

“I can’t wait, I can’t wait!” I called, already three or four yards away.

“But I haven’t heard how you got your arm—­”

“I can’t tell you now.  I can’t wait!”

My lethargy had vanished; I was hot to be on my way again.

“Is the man mad?” he cried; and he put his horse to a quick walk to keep up with me.

I stopped short.

“It would take all day to tell you the story,” I said impatiently.

“Still I should like to know—­”

“I can’t help it.  Look here, Gustave, the duchess knows.  Go and see her.  I must go on now.”

Across the puzzled mournful eyes of the rejected lover and bewildered friend I thought I saw a little gleam.

“The duchess?” said he.

“Yes, she’s all alone.  The duke’s not there.”

“Where is the duke?” he asked; but, as it struck me, now rather in precaution than in curiosity.

“That’s what I’m going to see,” said I.

And with hope and resolution born again in my heart I broke into a fair run, and, with a wave of my hand, left Gustave in the middle of the road, staring after me and plainly convinced that I was mad.  Perhaps I was not far from that state.  Mad or not, in any case after three minutes I thought no more of my good friend Gustave de Berensac, nor of aught else, save the inn outside Pontorson, just where the old road used to turn toward Mont St. Michel.  To that goal I pressed on, forgetting my weariness and my pain.  For it might be that the carriage would still stand in the yard, and that in the house I should come upon the object of my search.

Half an hour’s walk brought me to the inn, and there, to my joy, I saw the carriage drawn up under a shed side by side with the inn-keeper’s market cart.  The horses had been taken out; there was no servant in sight.  I walked up to the door of the inn and passed through it.  And I called for wine.

A big stout man, wearing a blouse, came out to meet me.  The inn was a large one, and the inn-keeper was evidently a man of some consideration, although he wore a blouse.  But I did not like the look of him, for he had shifty eyes and a bloated face.  Without a word he brought me what I ordered and set it down in a little room facing the stable yard.