Lacheneur understood everything now! And this supreme misfortune, after all the misery he had endured, quite prostrated him. Tears gushed from his eyes, and sinking on to a chair, he murmured: “Let them come; I am ready for them. No, I will not stir from here! My miserable life is not worth such a struggle.” But the landlady rose, and grasping at his clothing, shook and dragged him to the door--she would have carried him had she possessed sufficient strength. “You shall not be taken here; it will bring misfortune on our house!” Bewildered by this violent appeal, and urged on by the instinct of self-preservation, so powerful in every human heart, Lacheneur advanced to the threshold. The night was very dark, and chilly fog intensified the gloom. “See, madame,” said he, in a gentle voice, “how can I find my way through these mountains, which I do not know, where there are no roads--where the foot-paths are scarcely traced.” But Balstain’s wife would not argue; pushing him forward and turning him as one does a blind man to set him on the right track. “Walk straight before you,” said she, “always against the wind. God will protect you. Farewell!” He turned to ask further directions, but she had re-entered the house and closed the door. Upheld by a feverish excitement, he walked on during long hours. Soon he lost his way, and wandered among the mountains, benumbed with cold, stumbling over the rocks, at times falling to the ground. It was a wonder that he was not precipitated over the brink of some precipice. He had lost all idea of his whereabouts, and the sun was already high in the heavens when at last he met some one of whom he could ask his way. This was a little shepherd boy, who was looking for some stray goats, but the lad frightened by the stranger’s wild and haggard aspect, at first refused to approach. At last the offer of a piece of money induced him to come a little nearer. “You are just on the frontier line,” said he. “Here is France; and there is Savoy.” “And which is the nearest village?” “On the Savoy side, Saint-Jean-de-Coche; on the French side, Saint-Pavin.” So after all his terrible exertions, Lacheneur was not a league from the inn. Appalled by this discovery, he remained for a moment undecided which course to pursue. Still, after all what did it matter? Was he not doomed, and would not every road lead him to death? However, at last he remembered the carabineers, the innkeeper’s wife had warned him against, and slowly crawled down the steep mountain-side leading back into France. He was near Saint-Pavin, when he espied a cottage standing alone and in front of it a young peasant-woman spinning in the sunshine. He dragged himself towards her, and in a weak voice begged her hospitality.