‘What do you mean by this outrage, monsieur?’ he asked.
‘She is a murderess, I tell you!’ he continued hoarsely. ‘Her damned arts drove my son—him they called Sainte-Croix—to death! She killed him, body and soul, and she belongs to me. I will denounce her to the Chambre Ardente.’
‘Keep back!’ cried Philippe; ‘you are mad! What has the Marchioness of Brinvilliers in common with yourself?’
‘You shall see,’ answered Exili. ‘Look there—in the faubourg—the guard is coming. They have tracked you.’
And indeed the lights were visible from the cressets carried by the Guet Royal at the extreme end of the route. Philippe sprung upon the tumbrel as Exili spoke, and tried to proceed; but the other seized the horse’s head and endeavoured to arrest his progress.
‘Stand away!’ exclaimed young Glazer, ‘or you are a dead man!’
‘I shall not move,’ was Exili’s reply. ‘I shall be doomed myself, but I will drag her with me to the scaffold. See! they are coming—she is mine!’
His further speech was cut short by Philippe, who, raising his heavy country whip, struck the physician with all his force with the butt-end upon the temple. Exili staggered back, and then the student, lashing his horse furiously, drove from the hovel with tolerable speed, placing the lantern under the covering, that it might not be seen; whilst Marie, without speaking a word, gazed anxiously behind upon the advancing patrol. In a minute, however, a turn of the road shut them from her sight, and the travellers found themselves approaching the faubourg of La Villette, upon the high-road, without the Porte St. Martin.
It was, as Exili had said, a party of the guard who were in pursuit, mounted, and headed by Desgrais. The active exempt had gone to the Hôtel d’Aubray, as we have seen, and being at last admitted by Françoise, had seen some traces of a departure on the snow, which had drifted into the sheltered parts of the court. But in the street the fall had covered up the wheel-tracks; and, as the fugitives had conceived, he went directly to the Porte St. Antoine. The sentinel, however, told him that no one had passed the barrier; and he then rode briskly along the boulevards to the next gate, near the Temple. Here he learned a tumbrel had gone out of the city but a few minutes before his arrival; upon which he divided his troop into two parties, sending one along the road to La Courtille, whilst with the other he took the same line that Philippe had chosen, these being the only two practicable routes for vehicles without the barrier, and accompanied by the latter escort he soon arrived at the foot of Montfaucon.
Exili had been stunned for a few seconds by the heavy blow which Philippe Glazer had dealt to him; but, recovering himself before the guard came up, he darted back into the hovel, and seizing a piece of lighted wood from the hearth, told La Voisin to save herself as she best might, and then scrambled with singular agility up the steep mound at the back of the house, until he reached the stone-work of the gibbet. This was crumbling, and afforded many foot-places by which he could ascend, until he stood between two of the pillars that still supported the crosspieces, above the hollow way along which Desgrais and his troop were progressing.
The exempt knew the physician directly, as his gaunt form appeared in the lurid light of the cressets, and the rude torch that he himself carried; and he would have ordered the guard immediately to capture him, had not Exili arrested the command by speaking.
‘You seek the Marchioness of Brinvilliers,’ he cried. ‘She was here not an instant back; and you will find her, if you care to hurry, on the grande route.’
‘I call upon you to surrender yourself my prisoner,’ said Desgrais, speaking from below; ‘you may then guide us on the track.’
‘If I had meant to give myself up,’ said Exili, ‘I should have remained below. I have put you on the scent, and that was all I wanted. Farewell!’
He waved his hand to the officers, and disappeared behind the foundation of the masonry. On seeing this, Desgrais sprang
from his horse, and, seizing a cresset from the guard, told one or two of the others to follow him, as he rapidly ascended the mound. He was active, his limbs were well-knit, and a few seconds sufficed to bring him to the spot from whence Exili had spoken; but as he looked over the area of masonry, not a trace of the physician was visible, except the smouldering brand which he had flung down upon the ground.
The others had arrived at the platform, and by the additional light from their cressets Desgrais perceived an opening in the stone-work, conducting below by ragged jutting angles of masonry, and down this he boldly proceeded to venture. It conducted to a terrible spot—the cemetery of those unfortunates who had perished on the gibbet, into which the bodies were thrown in former times, to make room for fresh victims on the fourche. But now the dry bones were all that remained, crushing and rattling beneath the feet of the exempt as he proceeded; for nearly a century had elapsed since the last execution—that of the wise and just Coligni, during the fiendish massacre of St. Bartholomew. But the place had been undisturbed, time alone having altered its features; the only intruders upon its dreary loneliness being the dogs, and the sorcerers, who came thither for materials to give a horrid interest to their calling and frighten the vulgar who came to consult them.
By the flaring light of the cressets Desgrais beheld Exili cowering at the end of the vault. His object had evidently been to betray the Marchioness, whilst he eluded capture himself; but he had under-rated the keen vigilance of the exempt. He had been taken in a trap; and as one or two of the Guet Royal followed Desgrais, he saw that further resistance was useless. He held up his hand to prevent the threatened attack which the others seemed inclined to make; and then, advancing to the exempt, muttered—
‘I am your prisoner; take me where you please. The game is up at last.’
The party retraced their steps, and descended once more to the byway of the faubourgs. Bidding two of the patrol watch Exili, Desgrais next went into the hovel, and ordered the woman to come forth. She immediately obeyed, and made a haughty reverence to the authorities.
‘Madame Catherine Deshayes,’ said Desgrais, ‘by your name of La Voisin you are already under the surveillance of the police. You will please to accompany them at present, until your connection with the Signor Exili can be explained.’
Some of the patrol directly took their places on either side of the woman, and then Desgrais turned to Exili.
‘You will stay for to-night,’ he said, ‘in the Châtelet; to-morrow other arrangements will be made for your sojourn until the opening of the next chamber at the Arsenal. Two of you,’ he continued, addressing the guard, ‘will take charge of the prisoner to Paris.’
‘Then you will not want me to follow Madame de Brinvilliers?’ said Exili.
‘We do not now require your aid,’ was the reply. ‘Messieurs,—en route!’
The guard prepared to mount, when one of them rode, apparently in a great feeling of insecurity, through the little knot of patrol, and approached Desgrais. The lights revealed the form and features of Maître Picard.
‘Monsieur,’ said the little bourgeois, ‘I fear my horse is tired. I will therefore form one of the escort to take the prisoner to the Châtelet.’
‘I fear we cannot spare you just yet, mon brave,’ said Desgrais. ‘You are the only member of the Garde Bourgeois with us, and we may need your authority after mine. You must come on at present.’
Maître Picard groaned as he turned his horse’s bridle back again. He was evidently ill at ease in the saddle. He could just touch the stirrups—the leathers of which were much too long for him—with the tips of his toes; and as he had not crossed a horse since his grand progress to Versailles, he complained that the action of the present steed was somewhat too vigorous for him. But he was obliged to obey the orders of the exempt, and fell into the rear accordingly.
‘A country cart, drawn by one horse, and covered with a tilt, is the object of our chase,’ said Desgrais. ‘It cannot be ten minutes before us. Forward!’
The majority of the guard set off at a smart trot along the hollow way, whilst those who remained placed their prisoners between them, and prepared to return by the Porte du Temple to Paris.
Philippe Glazer made the best use of the time taken up in the enactment of this hurried scene. Urging the horse on, he had already left the scattered houses of La Villette behind them, and was now in the open country, hastening as fast as the snow would permit towards Le Bourget, at which village he had an acquaintance who would give him and his companion temporary shelter, and lend him a fresh horse, if requisite. The road was long and straight, and any light could be seen at a great distance. As they proceeded, still in silence, Marie kept watching from the back of the tumbrel, to give the student the first alarm of any indications of pursuit.
‘Philippe,’ at length she exclaimed in a low voice, as though she thought it would be heard in the extreme distance, ‘they are coming! I can see the lights at La Villette moving. Exili has betrayed us; what must be done?’
Her conductor jumped down to the ground as she spoke, and looked towards the hamlet, where the cressets were indeed visible. Every moment of advance was now most precious. He applied the lash with renewed activity to the flanks and legs of the horse, but with little effect. The animal was tired when he started; and the snow was now clogging round the wheels, rendering any material progress beyond his strength. At last, on coming to a deep drift, after a few attempts to drag the tumbrel through, he stopped altogether.
‘Malediction!’ muttered Philippe through his teeth; ‘everything is against us.’
‘They appear to be coming on at a fast trot,’ exclaimed Marie, as she hastily descended from the vehicle and stood at the side of the student. ‘We cannot possibly escape them.’
‘I am not foiled yet,’ replied Philippe. ‘We cannot outrun them, so we must try stratagem.’
Fortunately there was a small by-road running into a species of copse at the wayside, upon which was stored large stacks of firewood. Giving the Marchioness his whip, he directed her to flog the horse, whilst he himself with all his power turned one of the wheels. Marie complied—it was no time to hesitate; and by their united efforts they urged the animal forward, turning him off the road towards the copse, behind one of whose wood piles the vehicle was soon concealed.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘if they do not see us, we are safe.’
A few minutes of terrible anxiety supervened as the patrol came on at a rapid pace, their arms clanking and shining in the light of the cressets which one or two of them still carried, blazing brightly as the quick passage through the air fanned up their flames. Sure of the object of their pursuit, as they imagined, they did not pause to examine any of the tracks upon the ground, but were pushing hastily forward towards Le Bourget, where they either expected to come up with the fugitive, or receive information that would speedily place her in their hands. They came on, and were close to the spot where the others had turned off the road. Marie held her breath, and clasped Philippe’s arm convulsively; but neither uttered a syllable as they heard them pass, and could distinctly recognise Desgrais’s voice.
‘They have gone on!’ exclaimed the Marchioness as the sounds diminished.
‘Stop!’ said Philippe drawing her back, for she had advanced beyond their concealment to look after the patrol; ‘do not move; there are more to come.’
As he spoke a horseman came slowly up, who appeared to be lagging behind the rest as a sentinel. The starlight was sufficient to show Philippe that he was alone; and in the stillness the student could hear the rider muttering words of displeasure, and abusing the horse, as he rolled uneasily about on his saddle. He stopped exactly opposite the copse, and for a moment Philippe imagined they were discovered. But he was soon undeceived. The patrol, after vainly endeavouring to tighten his saddle-girths as he sat on the horse, attempted to dismount; but being short and round in figure, he could not well reach the ground from the stirrup, and the consequence was, he rolled down, and over and over in the snow like a ball.
‘Mort bleu!’ he exclaimed, as under the weight of his accoutrements he with difficulty scrambled on to his legs. ‘Pouf! every bone in my body is broken. Sacristie!—miserable beast! how shall I get on you again?’
And he very angrily, but in great fear withal, proceeded to lift up the horse’s hoofs, and pick the snow out of them with his halberd, one after another; having accomplished which, he tried to tighten the girths.
‘I know the voice,’ said Philippe; ‘it is Maître Picard. I shall take his horse.’
Pulling his student’s cap over his eyes, and disguising his voice, Philippe left the hiding-place and advanced towards the hapless little bourgeois—for it was the chapelier of the Rue de la Harpe. Maître Picard had laid his halberd on the snow; and Philippe, seizing it before the other was aware of his approach, demanded his money, in the usual tone of a road-marauder.
The bourgeois’ first exclamation was one of surprise at the unexpected apparition; but immediately after he began to shout—
‘Aux voleurs!—help!—murder!—guard!’
‘Speak another word, and you shall swallow this halberd,’ said Philippe. ‘Give me your arms.’
With wonderful celerity Maître Picard proceeded to dispossess himself of all his accoutrements, begging earnestly that his life might be spared, for the sake of his wife and family.
‘You are a miserable liar,’ said Philippe gruffly, ‘and I have a mind to pin you to a tree.’ And collecting the arms, he added, ‘Now stay here an instant. Move at your peril until I return.’
He ran back to the cart, and bringing out the lantern, put it in Maître Picard’s hand.
‘There! take this, and return to Paris. I shall watch you along the road, to see that you are not loitering to watch me. Be off!’
‘But the honour of a Garde Bourgeois——’ commenced Maître Picard, somewhat vaguely.
‘Ha!’ shouted Philippe, raising the halberd as though to strike. Maître Picard made no other attempt to remonstrate. He turned away, and was directly progressing towards Paris as fast as his little legs and rotund body would allow him.
As soon as Philippe saw he was beyond eye-shot, he gathered up the arms and then returned to Marie.
‘We have a fresh and powerful horse, madame,’ he said, ‘some good arms, and a clear way at present. We will abandon this tumbrel and use our new prize.’
The Marchioness acceded to everything; in fact, since they had started she had appeared completely passive, trusting entirely to the student. Philippe took the small bundle from the cart and slung it to the holster. He then placed Marie upon the croup of the horse, having turned back part of the sheepskin trappings to form a seat, and got up before her. The whole affair from Maître Picard’s first coming up did not occupy four minutes.
‘Now, grasp me tightly,’ he said. ‘Are you ready? then en route!’
He struck the horse as he spoke, and the animal sprang forward, apparently insensible of the double load he was carrying. Philippe’s object was at all hazard to press on as far as was possible towards Compiègne, knowing that at Offemont carriages and horses, with everything the Marchioness needed for her flight, were at her disposal; but the high-road between Paris and Senlis was one long straight line, with few byways branching off from it but those which went completely out of the way; and even along these the journey would have been hazardous, as the snow lay over the open country in one unbroken sheet, alike covering up the ground and the dykes to the same level.
Desgrais and his party had evidently pushed on with speed; for although Philippe was now riding at the rate of ten miles an hour, they saw no signs of them ahead. The church-clock of Le Bourget20 struck two as they entered the village; the snow had ceased to fall, and the stars shone somewhat more brightly; but beyond this everything was wrapped in obscurity, except at the end of the village, where a faint light was gleaming from one of the houses. The place consisted of one long street, and it was necessary to pass along this. Philippe reined up the horse, and proceeded, at a slow noiseless walk, in the direction of the light.
‘The snow comes aptly enough,’ he said; ‘or the ring of this beast’s shoes upon the clear frozen ground would soon have betrayed us. We must use a little caution now. I expect they have halted at the post-house.’
‘What do you mean to do?’ said Marie; ‘there will be danger in passing them.’
‘It must be tried, however. If they arrive before us at Senlis the game is up. You have courage to make the attempt, madame?’
‘I will dare anything,’ replied the Marchioness; ‘so that my bodily energy will but keep up to my determination.’
‘Then we will try it,’ said Philippe. ‘Now, keep a tight hold, a sure seat, and a good heart; and leave the rest to me.’
He continued walking the horse along the street until he was close upon the post-house—a wretched cabaret enough—about which the troop had collected, having dismounted, and knocked up the master for refreshment and what tidings they could collect. Knowing that, in all probability, the horse they rode would be called upon to exert all his power, Philippe paused for a few minutes to allow the animal to draw his breath; and then creeping in the obscurity as near the poste as he could safely, he struck the sharp and heavy stirrups into the sides of the horse, in lieu of spurs, and dashed hurriedly by.
The alarm was instantaneous. One of the guard perceived them, and called the others from the interior of the auberge. Headed by Desgrais, they rushed out and prepared to mount. The arrangement of their trappings took a minute or two, and then they started after the fugitives.
Meantime the horse which bore the student and the Marchioness flew on like the wind, with almost quivering rapidity. Philippe knew, however, that this velocity could not be sustained for any very long time, more especially under the extra burden; and he therefore again taxed his invention to produce some fresh scheme by which to deceive the others. He was aware that, somewhat further on, the road divided into two routes, one running through Mortefontaine, and the other by La Chapelle, and this decided him what plan to adopt. Still keeping his horse at his full speed, which the party of Desgrais had not yet been able to come up with, he pressed onward, and in another quarter of an hour had arrived at the bifurcation of the route in question. Taking the right-hand road without allowing his horse to relax his speed, before long they entered the beginning of the street of Mortefontaine.
Philippe pulled up the horse for a few seconds, finding that Desgrais’s party were not yet upon them; and then briefly explained to Marie his intentions. It chanced that an old professor of medicine at the Hôtel Dieu—one Docteur Chapelet, who had in no small degree annoyed Philippe by his exercise of authority over the students generally during his pupilage, had come to settle as apothecary at Mortefontaine. Young Glazer knew the house, which was situated within a court and porte-cochère in the middle of the village, and towards this he now rode, choosing those parts of the uneven road where the snow was deepest, to leave the most vivid marks behind him. Coming close to the porte-cochère, he immediately backed the horse into a small watercourse running at the side of the road, and then followed its direction until he came to a part of the road where the wind had blown the snow, as it fell, into the hollows. By this means not a trace of his progress was visible, after the gateway; and crossing the road at this point, he once more put the horse into a gallop across the bare open country, until he regained the grande route which led direct to Senlis.
The alarm which had been so hurriedly given by the sentinel as the Marchioness passed the post-house at Le Bourget, called the guard together immediately; and after the short delay alluded to, they replenished their lights, and pricked on at a smart pace along the high-road, leaving directions with the aubergiste to inform Maître Picard of their route should he come up. Arriving at the fork, they halted awhile until they saw the traces of the fugitives, which they at once followed; for the surface of the snow on the left-hand road was perfectly undisturbed; and these marks, keenly picked out by the quick eye of Desgrais, brought the whole party up to the porte-cochère of the Docteur Chapelet, but a very short time after Marie and Philippe had quitted it. Here the impressions of the horse’s shoes suddenly ceased, and here of course they decided that the fugitives had taken shelter.
The exempt rode up to the bell-handle and gave a mighty pull, sufficient to have alarmed the whole village, had it not been so profoundly wrapped in sleep. As it was, it awoke the doctor immediately, for his ears were ever sensitive to the slightest tingle of a summons; and he forthwith struck a light, and projected his head, enveloped in a marvellous mass of wrappings, on account of the cold, from the window of the room which overlooked the road at the end of one of the wings.
‘Dieu de Dieux!’ exclaimed the doctor, as he saw the cavalcade below his window. ‘What is the matter? Who is hurt? Who are you?’
‘Admit me directly,’ said Desgrais, without deigning to answer the doctor’s questions; and in such a tone of authority that the professor, imagining nothing less than that he had been sent for by Louis Quatorze himself, or at the least Madame de Montespan, hurried on his clothes, and tumbled downstairs into the court-yard, to which the exempt and his force were soon admitted.
‘Eh bien, monsieur!’ said Desgrais; ‘you will now have the kindness to give up the Marchioness of Brinvilliers and an accomplice, whom you have sheltered in your house.’
The professor regarded the exempt with an air of a man who is asked a question before he is thoroughly awake.
‘Every instant of delay compromises your own security,’ continued Desgrais. ‘Where are they?’
‘On my word of honour, as a member of my learned profession, I know not what you mean, monsieur,’ at length gasped out the doctor. ‘There is no one within but Madame Chapelet and the servant.’
‘Sir,’ cried Desgrais in a voice of thunder, ‘if you do not immediately produce the fugitives, we will give you the question of the cord from the top of your own gateway.’
‘Will anybody tell me what I am expected to do?’ cried the professor in an agony of bewilderment. ‘Sir, captain——’
‘I am no captain, monsieur,’ interrupted Desgrais; ‘but an exempt of the Maréchaussée. We have traced the fugitives to your door, and now demand them of you. Gentlemen,’ he continued, to the guard, ‘dismount, and proceed to tie up the doctor and search his house.’
‘I tell you there is no one here,’ screamed the unfortunate professor, as some of the guard proceeded to lay hands on him; ‘or if there is, it is without my knowledge. You can search my house from top to bottom. I will conduct you everywhere.’
This was said with such frantic anxiety that Desgrais placed the confusion of the doctor rather to the score of undisguised fright than unbelieved truth. He directly stationed sentinels round the house, and, accompanied by Chapelet and the rest of his men, commenced a searching investigation, scaring the servant—a rosy, drowsy Normande—from her tranquillity, and even breaking the slumbers of Madame Chapelet, whose appearance, in her provincial night-gear, attracted less the attention of the Guet Royal. Not a corner of the abode was left unvisited. Desgrais sounded the panels, and even broke in the side of one of the fireplaces, which he thought was a masked recess. He crept up into the lofts and down into the cellars, but, of course, without success; until, having visited the stable and found but one horse therein—a sorry animal, whose appearance betrayed not the least token of recent exercise—he confessed himself fairly at a loss to know what to do next.
‘She is a deep one, that Marchioness!’ he said, ‘and has fairly tricked us. We are sorry, monsieur,’ he added, addressing the professor, ‘to have annoyed you in such an untimely manner; but you have our best wishes that the remainder of your night’s rest will be undisturbed.’
The professor made a grimace, and an attempt at a bow.
Desgrais continued—
‘Gentleman, we must be again on our way. One thing is certain—the fugitives will not return to Paris, but, without doubt, are still on the road, although this ruse—for such it is—is inexplicable. We must go on to Senlis.’
The guard did not obey this order with their usual alacrity. They were put out of heart by the escape of their intended prisoners when they thought them in their grasp. Their horses, too, were fatigued; and between Mortefontaine and Senlis there were still eight or nine good miles of ground to be got over. But Desgrais’s orders were peremptory; and although grumbling quietly to one another, they remounted, and were again on their pursuit.
But the delay thus brought about had answered Philippe’s purpose, who still kept bravely on with his companion, until at last they came to the faubourgs of Senlis, and the horse’s hoofs clattered over the pavement of the narrow streets, with the topography of which the student was very well acquainted. The pace had, however, materially diminished, and Philippe was not sorry when they at last stopped at the poste—the Hôtel du Grand-Cerf. Luckily the inn was open, and the people were up; for a public conveyance running from Valenciennes to Paris was expected within an hour, either sooner or later—its arrival being a matter of great uncertainty, depending alike on the roads, the weather, and the thieves.
Philippe was on the ground the instant they reached the door; and, assisting Marie to dismount, supported her into the inn, whilst one of the écuyers took the horse. As the student reached the salle à manger, where a bright fire was burning, Marie could bear up no longer. She strove to utter a few words, and then, her voice failing, went into a violent fit of hysterics that appeared tearing her to pieces.
Philippe was a clever fellow in his profession, and could have prescribed fitly for a patient; but he scarcely knew how to act upon the present occasion. His natural readiness, however, never deserted him; so he sent for the mistress of the hotel, and, commencing by ordering a chaise and four to be immediately in waiting, that he might command more attention, said to the hostess—
‘We must make a confidante of you, madam. As a woman, you will assist us. In a word, I am in love with this lady, and we have eloped together to avoid a forced marriage on her part. Will you attend to her kindly, whilst I hurry the stable-people?’
And without waiting for a reply Philippe left the convulsed form of the Marchioness to the care of the landlady, whilst he went into the inn-yard to urge on the putting-to of the horses. The hostess did not disbelieve his story. We have before spoken of the singularly youthful appearance of Marie’s features; and as Philippe Glazer was a handsome young man, about the same age, she took it all for granted, and directly entered into the trouble of ‘the poor young couple,’ as she imagined them to be. The prospect of good payment might, at the same time, have increased her sympathy.
When the carriage was ready Philippe returned, and then Marie was slightly recovered, and was sipping some warm wine, poured from one of a number of bright little pewter vessels which were ranged amongst the glowing embers of the fireplace. She was, however, pale and anxious, and earnestly inquired of Philippe if he was ready to start.
‘The horses are waiting,’ he replied, as Marie, turning to the landlady, inquired, ‘How many others have you in the stable at present?’
‘There are six,’ replied the hostess; ‘four of which are going on with the Valenciennes express.’
‘Are the roads safe?’ asked the Marchioness.
‘But tolerably so, ma’amselle. They usually travel armed who go by night, or with an escort.’
‘I will have two of your people,’ she added, ‘to ride by our side. Let them mount immediately.’
‘There is little to apprehend from the robbers,’ said Philippe, as the landlady hurried out of the room.
‘But a great deal from Desgrais, if he gets fresh horses,’ replied Marie. ‘I would take them all on if I could.’
Philippe immediately saw her object. The mistress returned in two minutes, and informed them that all was ready; when, hurriedly paying the account, they entered the lumbering but comfortable vehicle that stood at the door, guarded by two rough-looking écuyers, who, in some old postilion’s trappings, had been suddenly raised to the dignity of an escort.
‘And now to Offemont, by Compiègne,’ cried Philippe to the riders. ‘A treble pour boire if you get there under three hours, and without a change! Allons!’
‘Allume! hi donc! hue! hue! ir-r-r-r!’ The traces, long enough for eight horses, tightened; the postilions shouted and cracked their whips; the animals left off whinnying and fighting, and then started swiftly off; their feet clattering and the bridle-bells jingling through the empty streets of Senlis. They did not, however, put out their full speed until they left the town; but then, urged on by Philippe every minute, they dashed on like lightning. But a short way from the gates they met the Valenciennes express, with the lamp over the driver’s head gleaming upon the white road along which they were toiling; and after this the way was clear. On, on they went, as the bare and spectral trees that bordered the route appeared to be flying past them; their very speed counteracting, by its excitement, the depression and fear caused by the journey. Villeneuve-sur-Verberie! they had passed over three leagues. There was a short halt at the poste to change the riders of the horses, and thus divide the work, and they were again on the road, which now passed through forests and along straight avenues of trees, with snow-laden branches overhanging the way. Then came more villages, in which no signs of life were visible; again they were hurrying over the open country, or traversing the wood. But still the same rattling pace was kept up, until they again stopped, for as long a rest and as good a bait as the impatience of Marie and Philippe would allow, at La Croix-Saint Ouen; at the post-house of which village they left their escort, fully satisfied that their horses could be of no further service to any one, for that night at least.
Desgrais had lost too much time at Mortefontaine to get to the inn at Senlis until half an hour after the Marchioness had left. It did not take him long, however, when he got there, to undeceive the landlady as to the real position of affairs. Here fresh annoyances awaited him. The horses, as we have seen, had all been bespoken; those of his own troop were too tired to proceed, and the exempt therefore determined to use those waiting for the Valenciennes express, which arrived a minute or two after he reached the Grand-Cerf. This of course led to a violent uproar between the passengers and the guards; but the former could not well help themselves. Desgrais asserted his royal authority for so doing, against which there was no appeal; and the travellers accordingly were obliged to remain at the hotel, whilst the exempt, and three picked followers, took the horses, and were again on their journey, leaving the scared hostess to recount to her customers, against her will, the deception which had been practised on her.
Nothing befell the party as they rode on to Villeneuve-sur-Verberie, where a relay of fresh horses was obtained at the poste, with fresh intelligence of their intended prisoner. At La Croix-Saint-Ouen they fell in with the two stable fellows left behind by Philippe, and from them Desgrais learned that it was the intention of the fugitives to go to Offemont. Knowing that the establishment of the Marchioness at this place was large, and that several horses were at her disposal, the active exempt foresaw there was yet necessity for the utmost speed; but his companions were completely knocked up; they had ridden in heavy accoutrements from Paris, and although they did not dare to refuse, Desgrais perceived the pursuit would be a sorry business; he therefore determined to go on alone, and mounting a fresh horse, slung a flask of brandy over his shoulders, and started by himself for Compiègne. He was a man of unflinching purpose and iron nerve, and he resolved not to return to Paris until Marie was in his power.
It was between five and six in the morning when he entered a little village adjoining Compiègne, and still dark; but the exempt found the hamlet in some commotion: lights were flitting about the street, and people talking simultaneously, at the top of their voices, in the manner of their countrymen at the present day, as they gathered round some object in the middle of the road. Desgrais pushed forward, and asked the cause of the tumult at such an unwonted hour.
‘The wheels of a post-carriage have taken fire, monsieur,’ replied a bystander, ‘and one is quite destroyed.’
‘And the travellers?’ eagerly demanded the exempt.
‘Have gone on to Compiègne in a market-cart, not ten minutes ago.’
Desgrais put spurs to his horse, and galloped off without saying another word.
With all his energy to overtake the fugitives, the exempt was again too late, although fate appeared almost to have thrown them into his hands. There were a train of market-carts coming into Compiègne on all sides from the suburbs; and Desgrais, after stopping one or two in authoritative tones, to the temporary astonishment of the owners, became so confused with their numbers by the time he reached the Place, where they were all collecting, that he gave up any further search, and resolved, after a little rest, to proceed to Offemont; for, as may be imagined after his harassing journey, he was well-nigh exhausted. The brandy he carried with him gave him a temporary power of endurance, and he now stood in need of more substantial nourishment; and feeling sure that the Marchioness would go at once to her château, not giving him credit for pursuing her so closely, he still reckoned upon seizing her before noon, and then, with the assistance of the municipal authorities of the town, taking her back to Paris.
In the meantime the humble conveyance which had taken up Marie and Philippe stopped with them at one of the principal inns, at the very time that the active agent of the Maréchaussée was endeavouring to discover them in the streets. At Compiègne the Marchioness was well known. The firing of the wheels of the post-carriage accounted sufficiently for her arrival in the market-cart; and her worn, jaded appearance, was attributed to fright at the occurrence. Her character stood well, no less at Compiègne and the neighbourhood than at Paris, as an amiable and much-wronged lady; the wild career her husband had followed since their separation—the embarrassment of her affairs—his unbridled licentiousness—all offered sufficient excuses for her attachment to Sainte-Croix; more especially in an age when gallantry was almost a virtue—at all events, a most venial transgression; and therefore it is not to be wondered at that the entire household of the hotel were anxious to do all they could to assist her at present, even to the point of becoming officious. A fresh carriage and horses to Offemont was all, however, that the Marchioness required, and these were immediately got ready.
‘And now, Philippe,’ said Marie, as they awaited the time to start in one of the rooms of the hotel, ‘I shall no longer require your help. You had better return to Paris as soon as you well may, and leave the rest of my destiny in my own hands. Here I am comparatively at home, and all are ready to assist me.’
‘I would see you as far as your house at Offemont,’ said the student.
‘There is no necessity for your so doing,’ returned Marie. ‘On the contrary, it may involve you in some little trouble, more especially if I am overtaken before I am able to clear myself to the satisfaction of everybody.’
‘But it is only now a few miles to the château,’ said Philippe.
‘And therefore is there the less occasion for you to accompany me, whichever way the venture turns. If I get there unobserved, your presence would be entirely superfluous; if I am overtaken, it would but involve another in this persecution. I have already been the cause of too much misery.’
The deep-drawn, almost wailing, sigh of utter exhaustion and misery which followed these words carried with it such an expression of desolation, that many who had far less faith in her sincerity than Philippe would have been affected by it. And yet the depth and calculation of this extraordinary woman prompted everything. She knew that if Philippe Glazer was found with her, a fresh link would be added to the chain of circumstances that connected her with Sainte-Croix’s affairs, and the revelations of the casket; and she was anxious that this should be annulled. Hitherto she had owed everything to his escort and invention; but, now that she was amongst her own people, and enabled to go on by herself, she foresaw that, in the event of their being overtaken, his presence would be considered anything but favourable to her position. And yet, through all this, she was not at the moment entirely devoid of feeling. We have said that the most schooled and lying natures have their gleams of candour and sincerity, and in an access of this kind she continued to the student—
‘You have been very kind to me, Philippe; risking everything to save me when, I doubt not, before long the whole world will have turned its back upon me. How can I return this devotion?’
‘No more, madame, I beseech you,’ replied her companion. ‘It would be a crime indeed not to have assisted you in this extremity, knowing all as I do.’
‘All!’ half exclaimed the Marchioness, as she bent her eye upon Philippe’s countenance; but nothing there indicated a meaning of any import. She continued—
‘Let this cloud but blow over, and you shall not complain of my want of gratitude. But at present, take this clasp, and keep it as a souvenir of our journey. And promise me,’ she went on, as she unclasped a jewel from her dress and placed it in Philippe’s hand—‘and promise me that, come what may, you will see me again, under whatever circumstances it may be practicable to do so.’
‘I swear it,’ replied Philippe, as he put the gift in his pocket, ‘even if you were watching my journey to the scaffold!’
Again Marie regarded the student with an intensity, as though she would have probed his most hidden thoughts. It was not the first time that he had alluded to the Place de Grêve upon their journey. Still there was an absence of any apparent intention in the speech; but the words caused a shiver to run through her frame, and she turned even paler than before, a slight quivering of her lip, in addition, betraying her emotion. At this moment the carriage which was to bear her to Offemont was announced; and pressing Philippe’s hand warmly, she averted her face, and without another word hurriedly entered the vehicle. The word was then given to start, the windows were drawn up to shut out the freezing morning air, and in another minute she was on the road to Offemont.
Philippe watched the carriage until it turned the street, and then returned to the salle à manger of the hotel. The intense excitement, and the hazards he had undergone, now left a reaction of extreme depression. The beauty of Marie de Brinvilliers, and her singular fascinations—her rank and acknowledged acquirements—no less than the romance which her very gallantries had given to her character, had half-turned the student’s head, and he began to question himself, as he had done a dozen times before during the night, when he felt her clinging to him on the horse, whether his chivalry was not turning into love; and lighting his pipe, he sat over the hearth ruminating upon her present situation, and the events of the last few hours, and what a great thing it was for a student to be in love with a Marchioness; and lastly he determined, in the event of her being taken, literally to go through fire and water to assist her, if such were requisite. And then he remembered that when Camille Theria had left Paris for Liége, he had spoken of some letters he had received from the Marchioness, which brought about a new train of thought, until his ideas became altogether confused, and he fell into a doze at the warm fireside.
He was aroused by the entrance of an individual in the costume of the Guet Royal, who marched clanking into the room with an important air, shouting loudly for the hostess. But the landlady was engaged at that minute; and having restlessly walked up to the window and curled his mustachios, he returned to the fireplace, and gave a loud, gruff ‘hem!’ which startled Philippe from his reverie.
‘Have you been here long, mon brave?’ he asked with a patronising air, having attracted his attention.
‘About half an hour,’ said Philippe. ‘I came in early to the market.’
‘Then perhaps you can tell me whether any travellers have arrived or departed within that period.’
Philippe’s first impulse was to answer in the negative; but a sudden idea struck him that he might turn the reply to good account.
‘A lady left here in a carriage about ten minutes ago,’ he said.
‘Peste!’ exclaimed the guard. ‘M. Desgrais, the exempt of the Maréchaussée, has just arrived at the prefecture, with an order to arrest a Parisian lady, whom he has followed since last evening and this must be her. He has sent messengers to every hotel in the town to stop her. Do you know which road she took?’
‘The end of her journey was Beauvais,’ said Philippe, throwing the guard completely off the scent; ‘the horses were to go to Bois de Lihus.’
‘That is sufficient,’ said the other. ‘I am obliged to you.’
And having apparently got all the information he wanted, he returned to the prefecture, without seeing the landlady, who came to obey his summons within two minutes after he had left.
‘So,’ thought Philippe, ‘they are got rid of for three leagues and a half at least. The seven, there and back, will give madame plenty of time to steal a march upon them, which they will not readily make up. And now I had better look to myself.’
There was nothing to settle at the inn, so Philippe lounged idly out of the salle à manger into the street, where the full bustle and activity of the day’s business was beginning to get into play. On arriving at the Place, he found many of the market-carts about to return into the country. Several were going back towards Senlis; but not caring to travel the same route by which he had arrived at Compiègne, for many obvious reasons, he made a bargain with the owner of one of them to carry him to Joulzy, from whence he could easily get to Soissons, and return to Paris by an entirely different route.
Within an hour of leaving the poste at Compiègne the Marchioness had traversed a portion of the Forêt de l’Aigue and arrived at Offemont, at her château. Here no longer any difficulty existed in procuring the means of proceeding onward. The horses in the stable were fresh, and prepared for hard work; the servants were attached to her, from her having resided so much with them, up to the death of M. d’Aubray; and a change of dress, from her hurried costume to more suitable habiliments for the journey, somewhat refreshed her.
Still she was aware no time was to be lost; and knowing well—better than even Desgrais himself—the imminent peril she would be in if taken, she directly ordered her own carriage to be got ready, her determination being to reach the frontier of the Netherlands at the nearest point. Her anxiety created some little astonishment amongst the people; but they had only to obey, and a very little time elapsed before the carriage was in the court, and all prepared for the fresh start.
It was a fine winter’s morning. The sun was sparkling on the frozen snow, and the nostrils of the horses steamed in the sharp, bracing air, which called a flush on Marie’s cheek and rendered her appearance less haggard, by the temporary glow, than the terrible adventures of the night had made it. And now that she was entirely dependent upon her own energy for safety, her firmness rose with the danger. The first shock passed, all her wondrous determination came back to her assistance. In her utter, fearful heartlessness, she was almost beginning to look already upon the death of Gaudin as an accident by which some clog had been removed, and she had been left free and unfettered to follow her own will, as soon as her safety from her pursuers was secured.
A large package, apparently of clothes, was put in the carriage with her, and then the word was given to proceed at once to Laon—a large town some four and twenty miles off—with such speed as the horses could make in the snow. Here she arrived towards the afternoon, and then with fresh horses went on towards Vervins, changing at the little village of Marle, and taking some slight refreshment. It will be unnecessary for us to follow the Marchioness with minuteness throughout her route; for nothing beyond the ordinary adventures of the road occurred until she reached the frontier. Paying well at every poste, the horses were urged, in spite of all disadvantages, far beyond the common rate of travelling, and her hopes increased with every hour that Desgrais had been put off the scent. Reaching Vervins in the night, she went on to Rocroi, through Maubert, arriving at the former place some twenty hours after her departure from Offemont. Here she rested some little time, having need of refreshment beyond the few things she had, with some forethought, brought with her. At Fumay another delay was occasioned by the lack of horses; but this temporary hindrance was less annoying; for, since the previous evening, the frost had set in with such unparalleled severity that, with every contrivance, the cold had become intense, even causing her to suffer acute pain. But at night she was enabled again to be on the road, and reached Givet, the frontier town on the French side of the river Meuse, early in the evening.
Although not above five o’clock, the streets of this picturesque place were almost deserted in consequence of the cold, and the people at the inn were astonished to see a solitary female alight from the carriage, which now bore evidences of having come a long journey. But they carried the few effects that Marie had with her into the common room of the inn, and then heaped up the fire and bustled about to serve her, impressed with some respect by the liberality with which she paid the postes, and the report carried on from one town to another that such had been the case throughout the journey. Here all danger she imagined was over. The Meuse only separated her from another country, and to cross this was the work of half a minute. Hence she determined upon remaining at Givet for the night; for, with all her energy, her animal powers were now well-nigh exhausted by reason of want of rest.
She was alone in the large and cheerless public room of the ‘Ane Doré’—the hotel to which the postilions had brought her whilst the servants got another chamber warmed and ready to receive her. The hurry and confusion of the last two days and nights had left her but little time for reflection; but, now that the great risk was comparatively lessened, reaction took place, and a bitter depression stole over her feelings—crushing and desolate. All the terrible circumstances which had so lately occurred came back to her mind with fearful distinctness; the very shadows that danced upon the walls and ceiling appeared endowed with ghastly forms, that flickered and gibbered about her with an air of triumph. She could not close her eyes and shut them out; for the mere notion that they were then still mocking her was more insupportable than absolutely fixing her open eyes upon them. Anon the warmth of the fire, coming after the biting cold of the open air, induced drowsiness, and in a half-sleeping, half-waking state, these fitful shadows changed from the indistinct shapes into which her imagination had transformed them to palpable and horrid objects. A crowd of pale and sheeted spectres, with wasted limbs and distorted faces, as though they had died after long-protracted agony, swept slowly before her, bearing the semblances of those who, by her hellish agency, had filled the Salle des Cadavres of the Hôtel Dieu. Her father, too, was there—vivid and lifelike, as he had seemed to her on that fatal evening at Offemont, when the first step of her diabolical career had been taken. Her brothers rose up as well, and denounced her as they moved their blackened lips, and lastly, she saw the form of Gaudin de Sainte-Croix advancing through the immaterial and hideous groups that surrounded him. He came towards her, and, although the stamp of death was on his features, she felt his breath hot and stifling on her cheek as he advanced. She tried to move away, but some hideous sensation riveted her to the spot. He came still nearer, and stretched forth his hand to seize her, when with a cry of terror she awoke, and found herself still alone in the chamber; whilst a violent ringing of the bell in the court-yard recalled her at once to her senses.
She directly rushed to the window, her imagination picturing nothing less than the arrival of Desgrais. But to her relief she saw nothing beyond a small country vehicle, drawn by one horse, from which a man, apparently young, leapt down, and directed the fellow in attendance to take charge of it. He then entered the court, and immediately afterwards Marie heard him coming towards the room in which she was. She had barely time to throw a scarf over her head, and draw it together, so as in a measure to conceal her features, when the new-comer entered.
He started back for a moment as he perceived the room was occupied, and then, with some commonplace salutation, to which Marie only replied with a bow, advanced towards the fireplace. The Marchioness perceived that he was scrutinising her with sidelong glances, and again became somewhat alarmed; when the stranger divested himself of a travelling-cloak, and threw it on the table, previously to kicking the embers on the hearth carelessly together with his foot. As he did this the fire burnt up, and Marie caught a glimpse of his face. A subdued cry of surprise burst from her lips as she thought she recognised him, and she then exclaimed, half interrogating, half addressing him—
‘Camille Theria!’
‘The same,’ returned Theria, for it was he. ‘The same; and at your service, madame, mademoiselle, or ma belle—whichever title you choose to appropriate to yourself.’
‘Have you forgotten me?’ she asked, as she threw back the scarf and showed her face.
‘Marie!’ exclaimed Camille, as he started at the revelation. And he added almost directly, but in an altered tone, as though he would have been better pleased had his companion been any one else, ‘Mon Dieu! how came you here, for us to meet thus?’
‘You are annoyed, then, at meeting me,’ replied Marie; for her keen perception detected the difference of his expression. And, as she assumed a tearful and appealing look, she added, ‘I am used to this, Camille, and ought to have expected it. The time was when I should have been too proud to have even replied to you; but persecution and misery have crushed my spirit. My heart is quite—quite broken.’
She bowed down her head, and covered her face with her hands. She meant Camille to believe that she was weeping. He did so, and was touched at her distress. Taking one of her hands in his own, he said in kinder accents—
‘I was surprised at this sudden rencontre, Marie. I know not why, but I did not expect that we should ever meet again. It certainly was not my wish, although you will not give me credit for the cause.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I will tell you. You know I left Paris for Liége, my native place, some time ago. I have since then followed my profession there, and am about to be married. My intended lives at Mezières, whence I am now returning from a visit.’
‘And you ought to forget me,’ replied Marie: ‘it is right to do so.’ Then she added, ‘Do you remember the last evening we met, Camille?’
‘It would be difficult to forget it. I have the scar here on my arm from Monsieur de Sainte-Croix’s sword. Where is he—at Paris still?’
‘I know not,’ answered the Marchioness, with a violent effort to conceal her emotion; ‘it is long since we have met.’
‘He may be alive or dead, for aught I could say to the contrary,’ said Theria. ‘I never hear from Paris now.’
‘He knows nothing then,’ thought the Marchioness.
‘But how is it I find you here?’ continued Theria; ‘so far from home, and alone?’
‘Alas! Camille, it is a sad story, and some day you shall know everything. I have been compelled to fly from Paris—from my creditors—to avoid a prison. The separation from my husband and children drove me to seek any excitement that would drown my wretchedness. I played deeply, and I am ruined.’
‘Are you pursued?’
‘I believe the authorities are close upon my track. I only left Paris the evening before last. Your old friend Philippe Glazer came with me to Offemont, and from that place I have travelled alone.’
‘I think you might have chosen a better resting-place,’ said Theria. ‘This is the principal hotel, and the first to which the police would come. I shall wait here until my horse is rested, and then push on to-night, if possible, to Dinant; for I must be at Liége to-morrow. Will you accompany me?’
‘Again upon the road!’ murmured his companion in accents of despair. ‘My strength has nearly deserted me!’
‘It will be safer for you, if things are as you state,’ replied Camille. ‘You will have passed the frontier, and be three leagues nearer the termination of your journey. We will sup together if you please, Marie, and talk it over; I shall not start for an hour yet. Mass! how the wind is shrieking along the market-place!’
‘I will go with you,’ said Marie, after a little deliberation. ‘I could not bear to be left here now, wretched and utterly deserted as I am. The sight of you has recalled so many old feelings, that——’
‘Understand me, Marie,’ interrupted Camille, ‘the past must be never again alluded to between us. I have told you my position, and if we meet, it can only be as friends.’
‘It shall be as you wish, Camille,’ replied the Marchioness with a sigh. ‘I will not give you cause for the lightest rebuke.’
Some of the people of the inn appeared at that moment, and at Camille’s orders laid out a table for supper. When they left the room he said—
‘Have you no other dress? In my quiet vehicle your rich costume would at least excite curiosity; and the more unobserved we are the safer.’
‘I have provided against any suspicion,’ said Marie; and taking up the bundle she had brought with her, she left the room, returning within five minutes attired as a paysanne of the Forêt de l’Aigue. Her hair, which she usually wore in showering ringlets about her neck and shoulders, was knotted and disordered by her journey, and she stood before a large mirror in the room, to put it up beneath a small country cap, first letting fall its entire flowing length, with a coquetry that was intended to produce its effect upon Theria. But Camille’s affections were fixed at present rather on a brioche that adorned the table, and the effect was lost.
Whilst thus occupied, an unusual stir was heard in the street below the inn. Marie, alive to every sound, again rushed to the window, and to her dismay perceived that her worst fears were realised. A mounted escort of guards had surrounded a carriage, in which, by the lights they carried, she could plainly recognise Desgrais, and two other exempts. He had closely followed her, making up for the time lost in the wild-goose chase towards Beauvais by double speed as soon as he found himself on the right track; and, as Camille had imagined, came first to the principal hotel.
‘I am lost!’ she exclaimed, as she retreated from the window. ‘They have traced me!’
‘Not yet,’ said Camille, jumping up. ‘But you must be off directly. Where is your passport?’
A cry of terror broke from Marie’s lips at the question. She had left home without one, forgetting that it would be demanded at the frontier.
‘Never mind,’ cried Theria; ‘this way. We can get into the court before they enter by this staircase, and thence to some of the back streets. You must run every risk, if you wish to escape; though I should imagine, for a matter of debt, they would not be very hard upon you. Come—come!’
Little persuasion was needed to induce Marie to accompany her new guide. They flew down the small flight of stairs indicated by Theria, and were quickly in the street in the rear of the hotel, whence a few turns conducted them to the river side, where the Meuse was chafing amidst the huge blocks of ice which had floated down its stream, and were gathering into one solid mass.
‘If you could but cross the river,’ he said, ‘we should be safe. But a boat could not make its way amidst the ice. We will try it, however, if you choose.’
‘I am ready,’ said Marie. ‘The chance is a desperate one either way.’
‘We must not be particular about what craft we take,’ said Theria, ‘so long as it remains undiscovered. Here is one I think will do.’
A small boat had been hauled on to the bank, which Theria directly launched through the brittle ice close to the shore; and then, assisting Marie to enter it, he got in himself, and pushed off with one of the stretchers. So rapidly had everything taken place, that before the Marchioness well understood what they were about, she found herself with Theria half across the river.
It was not very dark. One or two lights were gleaming and struggling with the wind along the edge of the river; and the frosty brightness of the stars was sufficient to enable them to discern surrounding objects. The huge blocks of ice kept floating about them, at times turning their boat completely round, and at last a conglomeration of these masses hemmed them in, threatening entirely to arrest their farther progress. Theria made a few strenuous efforts to set the boat free, but in vain. Another and another block joined the body, until the entire mass, wedging itself in with some fixed groups that extended a third of the way across the river, became altogether immovable.
‘Pheuh!’ said Theria, as, after a few laborious attempts to get the boat out, he threw down his piece of board, and saw the futility of his work. ‘What can we do now? We are fairly trapped.’
‘It is all over!’ exclaimed Marie, as she gazed at the gloomy masses, about which the cold feathery spray of the river was dashing, terrible to look at in the obscurity. ‘We shall be kept here until daylight, and then be captured.’
‘If we are, I shall be mistaken,’ said Theria. ‘The ice ought to make a bridge, although a slippery one.’
He tried to gain a footing upon one or two of the blocks; but they turned round as he touched them. At last he found one larger and firmer than the rest—a conglomerate of several pieces, forming a perfect iceberg—and this was frozen to some others that had been arrested in their progress by one or two piles just under water. It was extremely hazardous; but their only chance was to endeavour to reach the bank by this treacherous passage. Theria stepped carefully from the boat on to the block, which, somewhat depressed in the middle, offered a safer platform to stand upon than those of a more irregular shape. Then, assured of its stability, he gave his hand to the Marchioness, and bidding her to trust herself entirely to his guidance, assisted her on to the ice, moving with extreme caution, and sideways towards the bank. The least slip of the foot or overbalance of weight would at once have been fatal to both; but, fortunately, the severity of the frost had so bound the masses to each other, that in little more than a minute their perilous journey was accomplished, and they stood on the firm land on the other side of the river. The cold had kept all within doors, so that they were not observed by any passers by, and the darkness hid them from the view of the sentinels on the adjacent fortifications.
Camille directly led Marie to a small cabaret on the quay, and told her to await his return, whilst he went back to the hotel by the bridge—having his passport en règle, and being, moreover, slightly known to the authorities. His absence had scarcely been noticed at the ‘Ane Doré’ in the confusion, although they were eagerly seeking the Marchioness; so he ordered out his horse and little conveyance, and drove over the bridge to the spot where he had left Marie. Here she joined him, and they then set off together to Dinant, the first town in Belgium on crossing the frontier, where they arrived in two hours. Now Marie determined at all hazards to stop. She had meant to do so at Givet, had it been practicable, for her strength would hold out no longer; indeed, for the last ten miles of her journey, she had been in a complete state of stupefaction from want of rest, after the trials she had undergone. Theria went to another house to avoid any suspicion, recommending her to post onward in the morning, so as to reach Liége before Desgrais could get any order for her ‘extradition’ from the Conseil des Soixante in that city. The chances were in favour of her security; for no one had seen her leave Givet, nor would the passport books afford any information as to her route.
Meantime Desgrais had learned sufficient at the ‘Ane Doré’ to convince him that the Marchioness had been there; and the discovery of the garments she had left at the hotel at once decided him. But she had again slipped through his hands, and this time without leaving a trace of her journey behind her. He immediately sent his archers round to the commissaries of police and the barriers; but no passport had been seen that night, nor were the guards aware that any one had crossed the bridge since dark, except Theria, whom they mentioned. But he knew that the Marchioness had the passage of the frontier for her object, and that Liége, as the nearest place of importance, would in all probability be the end of her journey; and consequently, leaving a portion of his men at Givet, with orders to make the strictest investigation at all the hotels and small inns in the neighbourhood, he went on the same night to Dinant, actually sleeping in that town within two hundred yards of his object.
Marie was up as soon as there was daylight enough to proceed on her journey. Twenty leagues were now all that remained between her and Liége, and these she meant to traverse before night. The rest of some hours had refreshed her, bodily and mentally, and she was once more ready to encounter any difficulties her further progress might bring forth. The exempt never heard of the departure (which he immediately knew to be that of the Marchioness), until three or four hours after she had left Dinant; and then, still at a loss to account for the manner in which she had contrived to elude the police authorities at Givet, he ordered out a carriage and horses, and started after her with all the speed his money and authority could command, leaving his archers behind—with the exception of two who accompanied him—with orders to follow him as hastily as their means would permit.
Empanne, Havelange, Nandrin—all were passed without any circumstance occurring to obstruct Marie’s flight; and the gloom of the winter’s night was closing fast about her as the carriage came within the last mile of Liége. It was here, as she looked behind her through the small window at the back of the vehicle, to see if there were any signs of pursuit on the road—which had been her sole occupation during the day—that she first perceived two gleaming lights in the distance, evidently following her. She urged on the postilions, and a turn of the road hid them from her view. Then they were again visible, and apparently nearer; directly the brow of the hill, as she descended once more, shut them out, and the next minute she saw them gaining upon her during every interval of perfect darkness. Swiftly as she was flying along the road, it was evident that the other party was more than a match for her attelage in speed; and perceiving from this that every effort was being made to come up with her, she concluded that it was Desgrais.
Lashed and goaded to madness, her horses flew on like the wind, as from the front of the carriage she promised an additional reward every instant to their riders if they brought her to Liége before the other traveller. But Desgrais—for it was he—was equally on the alert. On the first intimation that a carriage was in sight on the road before them, he had left the interior, and, clinging to the front of the voiture, was urging his own people on as earnestly as the Marchioness, until the uproar of cries and cracking whips was plainly audible to the terrified inmate of the first vehicle. Tearing uphill, until the breathless horses almost fell from being overtasked—anon racing down, with a precipitancy that threatened annihilation every instant—and then flying along the level road, so close together, that the steam from the animals in the carriage of the Marchioness was still visible in the gleam of the lamps belonging to Desgrais—did the chase continue.
At last they entered Liége, and the pursuit now became doubly exciting from the cries of the postilions as they traversed the glooming streets at a fearful pace, cracking their whips as they whirled them above their heads, and shouting in an unearthly manner to warn the passengers of their advent. A charette in the road offered a temporary check to Marie’s carriage, and Desgrais the next instant was close up to her. But nearer he could not come; for the width of the thoroughfare would not allow the two vehicles to go abreast. They were, however, coming to a broader street, and then Marie knew he would pass her. To avoid this, and gain a minute of time—for every second now was worth the price of her life—she collected some straw from the interior of her coach, and tied it into a bundle with her handkerchief; then lighting it at the lamp of the carriage, she leaned out of the window, and threw it, blazing, directly in front of the leaders of the other voiture. The horse on which the postilion was riding reared up in fright, and directly threw him; his fellow backed as well, and the wheelers coming over them, they were all thrown together in a terrible confusion before the carriage, which by its own impetus came partly on them. In an instant Desgrais leaped upon his feet—for the shock had also thrown him upon the ground—and clearing the rider from the stirrups, he cut the traces with his poniard, and getting the horse upon his legs, vaulted into the saddle, leaving the rest of his equipage to the care of the archers who were inside. The carriage of the Marchioness was not fifty yards ahead, as it turned towards the convent she had indicated to the drivers. Once more everything depended on a few seconds, and Desgrais goaded the poor animal with the point of his weapon to spur it onwards, as the horses of his intended prisoner, equally urged, kept tearing on towards the goal. At last they stopped at the door of the convent, and as its heavy bell sounded with a loud and violent peal, the exempt came up to the carriage.
He sprang from his horse, and tore down, rather than opened, the door nearest the road, and seized the Marchioness by her mantle. At that instant the gate of the convent opened, as she jumped from the carriage and entered the lodge, leaving the garment in the hand of the exempt. Desgrais rushed through the vehicle, and was about to follow her, when she seized a cross from the porch, and held it towards him with a smile of triumph, that threw an expression of demonaic beauty over her features.
‘You dare not touch me!’ she cried; ‘or you are lost, body and soul!’
With an oath, Desgrais fell back before the sacred emblem. Marie had thrown herself upon the Church, and claimed a sanctuary. An impassable barrier was between them, and the whole of his toil to arrest her had gone for nothing. The chance had been lost, in a pursuit of nearly one hundred leagues, by half a minute.