“Perhaps even now I might have time to hide,” he said.
“Hide!” said Thibault, “that will be of no use, I can tell you.”
“And why not?” said Madame Polet, “I am going to try, anyhow. Come, dear Landry.”
And she led the young man away, with every mark of the most loving sympathy.
Thibault followed them with his eyes: “It’s going badly for you, Thibault, my friend,” he said; “fortunately, let her hide him as cleverly as she may, they have a good scent, and will find him out.”
In saying this, Thibault was unconscious that he was giving utterance to a fresh wish.
The widow had evidently not hidden Landry very far away, for she returned after a few seconds of absence; the hiding-place was probably all the safer for being near. She had scarcely had time to take breath when the recruiting-sergeant and his companions appeared at the door. Two remained outside, no doubt to catch Landry if he should attempt to escape, the sergeant and the other soldier walked in with the confidence of men who are conscious of acting under authority. The Sergeant cast a searching glance round the room, brought back his right foot into the third position and lifted his hand to the peak of his cap. The mistress of the Mill did not wait for the Sergeant to address her, but with one of her most fascinating smiles, asked him if he would like some refreshment, an offer which no recruiting-sergeant is ever known to refuse. Then, thinking it a favourable moment to put the question, she asked them while they were drinking their wine, what had brought them to Croyolles Mill. The Sergeant replied that he had come in search of a lad, belonging to the Mill, who, after drinking with him to his Majesty’s health and signed his engagement, had not reappeared. The lad in