Part 23 (1/2)

”Is a prisoner on the other bank, on the Jumieges peninsula. You see the famous abbey from here.”

They ran aground on a beach of big pebbles covered with slime.

”And it can't be very far away,” he added. ”Dalbreque did not spend the whole night running about.”

A tow-path followed the deserted bank. Another path led away from it. They chose the second and, pa.s.sing between orchards enclosed by hedges, came to a landscape that seemed strangely familiar to them. Where had they seen that pool before, with the willows overhanging it? And where had they seen that abandoned hovel?

Suddenly both of them stopped with one accord:

”Oh!” said Hortense. ”I can hardly believe my eyes!”

Opposite them was the white gate of a large orchard, at the back of which, among groups of old, gnarled apple-trees, appeared a cottage with blue shutters, the cottage of the Happy Princess.

”Of course!” cried Renine. ”And I ought to have known it, considering that the film showed both this cottage and the forest close by. And isn't everything happening exactly as in _The Happy Princess_? Isn't Dalbreque dominated by the memory of it? The house, which is certainly the one in which Rose Andree spent the summer, was empty. He has shut her up there.”

”But the house, you told me, was in the Seine-inferieure.”

”Well, so are we! To the left of the river, the Eure and the forest of Brotonne; to the right, the Seine-inferieure. But between them is the obstacle of the river, which is why I didn't connect the two. A hundred and fifty yards of water form a more effective division than dozens of miles.”

The gate was locked. They got through the hedge a little lower down and walked towards the house, which was screened on one side by an old wall s.h.a.ggy with ivy and roofed with thatch.

”It seems as if there was somebody there,” said Hortense. ”Didn't I hear the sound of a window?”

”Listen.”

Some one struck a few chords on a piano. Then a voice arose, a woman's voice softly and solemnly singing a ballad that thrilled with restrained pa.s.sion. The woman's whole soul seemed to breathe itself into the melodious notes.

They walked on. The wall concealed them from view, but they saw a sitting-room furnished with bright wall-paper and a blue Roman carpet. The throbbing voice ceased. The piano ended with a last chord; and the singer rose and appeared framed in the window.

”Rose Andree!” whispered Hortense.

”Well!” said Renine, admitting his astonishment. ”This is the last thing that I expected! Rose Andree! Rose Andree at liberty! And singing Ma.s.senet in the sitting room of her cottage!”

”What does it all mean? Do you understand?”

”Yes, but it has taken me long enough! But how could we have guessed ...?”

Although they had never seen her except on the screen, they had not the least doubt that this was she. It was really Rose Andree, or rather, the Happy Princess, whom they had admired a few days before, amidst the furniture of that very sitting-room or on the threshold of that very cottage. She was wearing the same dress; her hair was done in the same way; she had on the same bangles and necklaces as in _The Happy Princess_; and her lovely face, with its rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, bore the same look of joy and serenity.

Some sound must have caught her ear, for she leant over towards a clump of shrubs beside the cottage and whispered into the silent garden:

”Georges ... Georges ... Is that you, my darling?”

Receiving no reply, she drew herself up and stood smiling at the happy thoughts that seemed to flood her being.

But a door opened at the back of the room and an old peasant woman entered with a tray laden with bread, b.u.t.ter and milk:

”Here, Rose, my pretty one, I've brought you your supper. Milk fresh from the cow....”

And, putting down the tray, she continued: