II


A week later Gilbert was on his way to Geierfels. At Cologne he
embarked on board a steamboat to go up the Rhine ten or twelve
leagues beyond Bonn. Towards evening, a thick fog settled down
upon the river and its banks, and it became necessary to anchor
during the night. This mischance rendered Gilbert melancholy,
finding in it, as he did, an image of his life. He too had a
current to stem, and more than once a sad and somber fog had fallen
and obscured his course.

In the morning the weather cleared; they weighed anchor, and at two
o'clock in the afternoon, Gilbert disembarked at a station two
leagues from Geierfels. He was in no haste to arrive, and even
though "born with a ready-made consolation for anything," as M.
Lerins sometimes reproachfully said to him, he dreaded the moment
when his prison doors should close behind him, and he was disposed
to enjoy yet a few hours of his dear liberty. "We are about to
part," said he to himself; "let us at least take time to say
farewell."

Instead of hiring a carriage to transport himself and his effects,
he consigned his trunk to a porter, who engaged to forward it to
him the next day, and took his way on foot, carrying under his arm
a little valise, and promising himself not to hurry. An hour later
he quitted the main road, and stopped to refresh himself at an
humble inn situated upon a hillock covered with pine trees. Dinner
was served to him under an arbor,--his repast consisted of a slice