“She is in neither,” said La Mère Bauche, with her sternest voice; “nor is she in the house!” And now there was no longer an affectation of indifference on the part of any of them. They were anything but indifferent. The capitaine was eager in his demands that the matter should still be kept secret from the guests. She had always been romantic, he said, and had now gone out to walk by the river side. They three and the old bath-man would go out and look for her. “But it is pitch dark,” said La Mère Bauche. “We will take lanterns,” said the capitaine. And so they sallied forth with creeping steps over the gravel, so that they might not be heard by those within, and proceeded to search for the young wife. “Marie! Marie!” said La Mère Bauche, in piteous accents; “do come to me; pray do!” “Hush!” said the capitaine. “They’ll hear you if you call.” He could not endure that the world should learn that a marriage with him had been so distasteful to Marie Clavert. “Marie, dear Marie!” called Madame Bauche, louder than before, quite regardless of the capitaine’s feelings; but no Marie answered. In her innermost heart now did La Mère Bauche wish that this cruel marriage had been left undone. Adolphe was foremost with his lamp, but he hardly dared to look in the spot where he felt that it was most likely that she should have taken refuge. How could he meet her again, alone, in that grotto? Yet he alone of the four was young. It was clearly for him to ascend. “Marie,” he shouted, “are you there?” as he slowly began the long ascent of the steps. But he had hardly begun to mount when a whirring sound struck his ear, and he felt that the air near him was moved; and then there was a crash upon the lower platform of rock, and a moan, repeated twice, but so faintly, and a rustle of silk, and a slight struggle somewhere as he knew within twenty paces of him; and then all was again quiet and still in the night air. “What was that?” asked the capitaine in a hoarse voice. He made his way half across the little garden, and he also was within forty or fifty yards of the flat rock. But Adolphe was unable to answer him. He had fainted and the lamp had fallen from his hands and rolled to the bottom of the steps. But the capitaine, though even his heart was all but quenched within him, had still strength enough to make his way up to the rock; and there, holding the lantern above his eyes, he saw all that was left for him to see of his bride. As for La Mère Bauche, she never again sat at the head of that table,—never again dictated to guests,—never again laid down laws for the management of any one. A poor bedridden old woman, she lay there in her house at Vernet for some seven tedious years, and then was gathered to her fathers. As for the capitaine—but what matters? He was made of sterner stuff. What matters either the fate of such a one as Adolphe Bauche?