Olivier had taken a path across a rough and woody district, which shortened his walk by the third of a mile. He felt worn out, but at the sight of the trees in the distance which surrounded their little cottage, he took heart and quickened his steps. The gardener was waiting for him at the door, and Olivier called out to him joyfully-- "Hallo, Paul! You did not expect to see me so soon, eh?" But the man's expression told him instantly that something unusual had happened. His mother was ill perhaps--or Thérèse? He began to question the man anxiously, and when he reached him, stammered out-- "What is amiss? What is it? Oh, tell me quickly!" In a few words the gardener told him all: how the home had been invaded; the arrest of the two women; the agent's rough, off-hand replies to Clarisse's entreaties and protestations; then their tears, their screams, and their hurried departure in the direction of Montmorency, hastened, no doubt, to avoid disturbing the little family gathering just near the Carrefour de la Chèvre. Olivier, overpowered by the terrible details the gardener had been giving him, did not even think of asking to what family gathering he was alluding, but the name of the place, the Carrefour de la Chèvre struck him at once, and made him think of Vaughan. "And the Englishman?" he asked. "Which Englishman?" the gardener replied. Olivier, seizing him nervously by the arm, hurriedly explained. "You know that when I left this morning, Thérèse was alone.... My mother.... Did not she return afterwards with a stranger?" "No," answered the gardener, "the citoyenne Durand returned alone, and even...." "And even, what?" "And even in great haste. She seemed excited, looking behind her, as if she did not wish to be seen by the pleasure-party." "What pleasure-party?" asked Olivier excitedly. "A pleasure-party of citoyens and citoyennes, who were picnicking on the grass at the cross-roads of la Chèvre, and who seemed to know all about the arrest, for one of the agents went to speak to them afterwards." "And who were they?" asked Olivier, thinking he was on the track at last. "Indeed, citoyen, I do not know." "Are they still there?" inquired Olivier, with a ray of hope. "Oh! they have been gone a long time." "In what direction?" "I cannot say." "And you say that my mother and Thérèse have been taken to Montmorency?" "I am quite sure of it, unless, of course, the agents could find means of conveyance somewhere else." "A conveyance? What for?" "To take them to Paris." "Are they going to Paris, then?" "I suppose so, as they are arrested." Arrested! Olivier could not reconcile himself to the idea. Why arrested? What had they done? Of what crime were they guilty? For the tenth time the gardener told him he knew no more than he did, and the lad, beside himself with rage, violently reproached the gardener for not having fetched him at once from Saint-Prix.