Presumably I was still at General Sullivan’s disposal, and waiting to be given a message from him to be carried to General Arnold; but under the circumstances, it seemed to me that to bother my head further about such a message were to transform a military formality into a symptom of insanity.

It was twelve miles from Chambly to St. John’s, I knew. My desire for food vanished. If I walked all night, and if the monstrous thunderstorm that had crackled overhead for four long hours would last a little longer to light me on my way, I might still reach the Château de St. Auge by morning—and it might be before Marie de Sabrevois and her niece had vanished from my sight forever.

XX

USUALLY I saw nothing but dislike in Madame St. Auge’s eyes when she opened the door to me; but on this occasion I saw horror. Until then I had given no thought to my appearance; but now, when I looked at myself, I could see I was as badly off, nearly, as any of the wretched creatures with whom I had fought my way over Chambly rapids.

Thanks to the rain, which had ceased at last, I was almost clean; but there was nothing left of my stockings, and my shoes were a muddy pulp. My breeches, minus their knee buckles, were dangerously ripped, and fastened here and there with string. I had lost my hat; my hair was matted; my face, between my beard, my lack of food, and the weariness that weighed on me like lead, felt like hot glue. All in all, I couldn’t blame Madame St. Auge for staring at me as she did; but I couldn’t waste time apologizing for clothes or the lack of them.

“Where’s Ellen?” I asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “Ellen? You expect to see Ellen? You?”

“Look here,” I said, “I’ve been on the move all night—for days—ever since I can remember. The British are close behind us! Where’s Ellen?”

She lowered her eyes, folding her hands over her protruding stomach, and looked smug. “I don’t know where she is. I don’t know.”

“You must know! Do you mean they’ve already started for Albany?”

She looked stupid; it seemed to me she deliberately looked stupid. “For Albany? I don’t know.”

“You don’t know! She’s with Marie de Sabrevois, isn’t she?”

Madame St. Auge was sickeningly pious. “Our poor Marie!” she sighed. “She’s ill with exhaustion. In her bed, she is, alas! Allowed to eat only the simplest foods.”

Fatigued as I was, I had an impulse to take her by the shoulders and shake her. She knew it, too, for she backed away apprehensively, murmuring, “You must excuse me, if you please.”

“Did my brother come here?” I asked. “Do you know where he is?”