She was riding. I hope you won't
think I'm asking impertinent questions, but I wonder if you can tell
me who she is.'
'A lady riding in the Sentier des Contrebandiers?' Andre repeated
incredulously.
'She looked like one. Of course I may have been deceived. I didn't
hear her speak. Do you think she was a cook?'
'I didn't know any one ever rode in the Sentier des Contrebandiers.'
'Oh, for that, I give you my word of honour. A lady--or say a
female--in a black riding-habit; dark hair and eyes; very pale, with
red lips and things. Oh, I'm not trying to impose upon you. It was
about half a mile this side of where the path skirts the road.'
'You might stop in the Sentier des Contrebandiers from January to
December and not meet a soul,' said Andre.
'Ah, I see. There's no convincing you. Sceptic! And yet, twenty years
ago, you'd have been pretty sure to meet a certain couple of small
boys there, wouldn't you?'
'_Si fait_,' assented Andre. 'We went there a good deal. But we were
privileged. The only boys in this country now are peasants' children,
and they have no leisure for wandering in the wood. When they're not
at school, they're working in the fields. As for their elders, the
path is rough and circuitous; the high road's smoother and shorter, no
matter where you're bound.
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