“Cornevin!  Juliette!” cried Madame Michaud, who soon saw the head of her old cook at the window.  “I am going for a little walk; take care of the premises.”

Two enormous dogs, who began to bark, proved that the effectiveness of the garrison at the gate of the Avonne was not to be despised.  Hearing the dogs, Cornevin, an old Percheron, Olympe’s foster-father, came from behind the trees, showing a head such as no other region than La Perche can manufacture.  Cornevin was undoubtedly a Chouan in 1794 and 1799.

The whole party accompanied the countess along that one of the six forest avenues which led directly to the gate of Conches, crossing the Silver-spring rivulet.  Madame de Montcornet walked in front with Blondet.  The abbe and Michaud and his wife talked in a low voice of the revelation that had just been made to the countess of the state of the country.

“Perhaps it is providential,” said the abbe; “for if madame is willing, we might, perhaps, by dint of benefits and constant consideration of their wants, change the hearts of these people.”

At about six hundred feet from the pavilion and below the brooke, the countess caught sight of a broken red jug and some spilt milk.

“Something has happened to the poor child!” she cried, calling to Michaud and his wife, who were returning to the pavilion.

“A misfortune like Perrette’s,” said Blondet, laughing.

“No; the poor child has been surprised and pursued, for the jug was thrown outside the path,” said the abbe, examining the ground.

“Yes, that is certainly La Pechina’s step,” said Michaud; “the print of the feet, which have turned, you see, quickly, shows sudden terror.  The child must have darted in the direction of the pavilion, trying to get back there.”

Every one followed the traces which the bailiff pointed out as he walked along examining them.  Presently he stopped in the middle of the path about a hundred feet from the broken jug, where the girl’s foot-prints ceased.

“Here,” he said, “she turned towards the Avonne; perhaps she was headed off from the direction of the pavilion.”

“But she has been gone more than an hour,” cried Madame Michaud.

Alarm was in all faces.  The abbe ran towards the pavilion, examining the state of the road, while Michaud, impelled by the same thought, went up the path towards Conches.

“Good God! she fell here,” said Michaud, returning from a place where the footsteps stopped near the brook, to that where they had turned in the road, and pointing to the ground, he added, “See!”

The marks were plainly seen of a body lying at full length on the sandy path.

“The footprints which have entered the wood are those of some one who wore knitted soles,” said the abbe.

“A woman, then,” said the countess.

“Down there, by the broken pitcher, are the footsteps of a man,” added Michaud.