“We shall not inconvenience you long,” replied Corentin.  “In three hours from now we shall offer our regrets for having troubled your solitude.”

No one replied.  This contemptuous silence redoubled Corentin’s inward rage.  Laurence and the abbe (the two minds of their little world) had talked the man over and drawn their conclusions.  Gothard and Catherine had set the breakfast-table near the fire and the abbe and his sister were sharing the meal.  Neither masters nor servants paid the slightest attention to the two spies, who walked up and down the garden, the courtyard or the lawn, returning every now and then to the salon.

At half-past two the lieutenant reappeared.

“I found the corporal,” he said to Corentin, “lying in the road which leads from the pavilion of Cinq-Cygne to the farm at Bellache.  He has no wound, only a bad contusion of the head, caused, apparently, by his fall.  He told me he had been lifted suddenly off his horse and flung so violently to the ground that he could not discover how the thing was done.  His feet left the stirrups, which was lucky, for he might have been killed by the horse dragging him.  We put him in charge of Michu and Violette—­”

“Michu! is Michu in his own house?” said Corentin, glancing at Laurence.

The countess smiled ironically, like a woman obtaining her revenge.

“He is bargaining with Violette about the sale of some land,” said the lieutenant.  “They seemed to me drunk; and it’s no wonder, for they have been drinking all night and discussing the matter, and they haven’t come to terms yet.”

“Did Violette tell you so?” cried Corentin.

“Yes,” said the lieutenant.

“Nothing is right if we don’t attend to it ourselves!” cried Peyrade, looking at Corentin, who doubted the lieutenant’s news as much as the other did.

“At what hour did you get to Michu’s house?” asked Corentin, noticing that the countess had glanced at the clock.

“About two,” replied the lieutenant.

Laurence covered Monsieur and Madame d’Hauteserre and the abbe and his sister in one comprehensive glance, which made them fancy they were wrapped in an azure mantle; triumph sparkled in her eyes, she blushed, and the tears welled up beneath her lids.  Strong under all misfortunes, the girl knew not how to weep except from joy.  At this moment she was all glorious, especially to the priest, who was sometimes distressed by the virility of her character, and who now caught a glimpse of the infinite tenderness of her woman’s nature.  But such feelings lay in her soul like a treasure hidden at a great depth beneath a block of granite.

Just then a gendarme entered the salon to ask if he might bring in Michu’s son, sent by his father to speak to the gentlemen from Paris.  Corentin gave an affirmative nod.  Francois Michu, a sly little chip of the old block, was in the courtyard, where Gothard, now at liberty, got a chance to speak to him for an instant under the eyes of a gendarme.  The little fellow managed to slip something into Gothard’s hand without being detected, and the latter glided into the salon after him till he reached his mistress, to whom he stealthily conveyed both halves of the wedding-ring, a sure sign, she knew, that Michu had met the four gentlemen and put them in safety.