No other word was spoken until the De Talmonts reached their home, and even then very few. Madame de Talmont and Clémence arranged everything, and Henri seemed quite passive in their hands. According to their plan, he was to leave the cottage after nightfall, and travelling on foot by unfrequented ways, to try to reach the neighbourhood of their old home in the Bocage, where the faithful Grandpierre, who had been their father’s steward, would receive and protect him. A little money and a change of linen were concealed about his person, but on no account must he look like a traveller. So long had Madame de Talmont contemplated the necessity for this journey that she was able to give her son the fullest and clearest directions. At length all was done. The last meal was eaten together, or at least a pretence was made of eating it. Henri embraced his mother, and received her parting blessing; then Clémence, wrapping a shawl around her, said, “The night is fine; I will go with you to the stile of the far corn-field.” They walked along in silence. They had worlds to say to each other, and this might be their last opportunity on earth, yet neither found a word. Not until the parting-place was reached did Clémence whisper, as she slipped a purse into her brother’s hand, “There are five napoleons, Henri; you will be sure to want them. And oh! write to us as soon as you can. I will try to cheer and comfort our mother. Just one word more, dearest of brothers. Pray to God, seek to have him for your friend; then, whatever happens”-- But here her voice failed utterly. Henri threw his arms around her, and his voice was hoarse and changed, very unlike his own. “Clémence,” he said, “promise me one thing.” “Yes.” “That, _whatever happens_, you will not hate or curse me, or call me traitor, but forgive and love me still; that you will plead with my mother to forgive me”-- “Forgive you! love you still! What can you mean, Henri? It is not possible we should ever change to each other. Not--_possible_,” she sobbed, clinging to him, and straining him to her heart in an embrace that seemed as if no power on earth could sunder it. Somehow or other Henri freed himself at last. He said in a kind of choked whisper, “Remember my words. Good-bye, and God--your God--bless you.” One last lingering look, and he turned away, ran quickly down the sloping corn-field, and was soon lost to sight. But he did not take the path that Clémence supposed. He returned to the village by a circuitous route, and about midnight tapped gently at the curé’s door. The priest was evidently on the watch, for he opened the door and admitted him at once, then shut and bolted it, and extinguished the light he had kept burning in his window as a guide to his expected guest. CHAPTER XI. ONE OF HALF A MILLION. “It is not youth that turns From the field of spears again, For the boy’s high heart too proudly burns Till it rests among the slain.”