We traced the hard route which I had followed the day before, and reached Green Bay about dawn.  Pierre Grignon went to bed exhausted.  I had some breakfast and waited for Skenedonk.  He had not returned, but had sent one man back to say there was no clue.  The meal was like a passover eaten in haste.  I could not wait, but set out again, with a pillion which I had carried uselessly in the night strapped again upon the horse for her seat, in case I found her; and leaving word for the Oneida to follow.

I had forgotten there was such a person as Abbe Edgeworth, when he led a horse upon the ferry boat.

“You ride early as well as late.  May I join you?”

“I ride on a search which cannot interest you, monsieur.”

“You are mistaken.  I understand what has disturbed the house, and I want to ride with you.”

“It will be hard for a horseman accustomed to avenues.”

“It will suit me perfectly.”

It did not suit me at all, but he took my coldness with entire courtesy.

“Have you breakfasted, monsieur?”

“I had my usual slice of bread and cup of water before rising,” he answered.

Again I led on the weary trail to my house.  Abbe Edgeworth galloped well, keeping beside me where there was room, or riding behind where there was not.  The air blew soft, and great shadow clouds ran in an upper current across the deepest blueness I had seen in many a day.  The sun showed beyond rows of hills.

I bethought myself to ask the priest if he knew anything about Count de Chaumont.  He answered very simply and directly that he did; that I might remember Count de Chaumont was mentioned in Mittau.  The count, he said, according to common report, had retired with his daughter and his son-in-law to Blois, where he was vigorously rebuilding his ruined chateau of Chaumont.

If my mind had been upon the priest, I should have wondered what he came for.  He did not press his message.

“The court is again in exile?” I said, when we could ride abreast.

“At Ghent.”

“Bellenger visited me last September.  He was without a dauphin.”

“We could supply the deficiency,” Abbe Edgeworth pleasantly replied.

“With the boy he left in Europe?”

“Oh, dear no.  With royal dukes.  You observed his majesty could not pension a helpless idiot without encouraging dauphins.  These dauphins are thicker than blackberries.  The dauphin myth has become so common that whenever we see a beggar approaching, we say, ’There comes another dauphin.’  One of them is a fellow who calls himself the Duke of Richemont.  He has followers who believe absolutely in him.  Somebody, seeing him asleep, declared it was the face of the dead king!”

I felt stung, remembering the Marquis du Plessy’s words.

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Abbe Edgeworth.  “He has visions too.  Half memories, when the face of his mother comes back to him!”