The suddenness of his outburst silenced her. He saw that her bosom heaved convulsively. He could not guess the conflicting emotions in her breast; her pride struggling with her gratitude; her horror and detestation of the Republic contending with her admiration for his brave bearing in the face of danger; but as he looked at her, slight and girlish, standing there before him with flushed cheeks, as he saw the fire flash in her eyes although her hands trembled, he realized keenly how young, how defenseless she was, and his sudden burst of anger subsided. Her very pride moved him to pity by its impotence, and his heart yearned to be permitted to protect her from all the dangers which threatened her.
In a voice that trembled with emotion he went on:—
"Mademoiselle, I have known you since you were a child, and I have served you faithfully. Your wishes, your caprices have been my law. It was no galling servitude to me, mademoiselle, for mine was a service of love." He uttered the last words almost in a whisper, then stopped suddenly, as if the avowal had slipped from his lips unwittingly.
Mademoiselle de Rochefort started; while he spoke she had turned away; so he could not see her face, but he could imagine the look of disdain and scorn with which she had listened.
"Yes, I dared to love you," he continued. "I never meant to tell you, but now that the avowal has slipped from my lips I would have you know that I always loved you. That is why I am here now, pleading with you, not for your love, for that I know never can be mine, but for your safety, your life." She remained silent, and he continued, speaking rapidly,—"You have said that a king's blood is upon my hands. His death was necessary and I do not regret it." Edmé shuddered and letting herself sink back into a chair sat there with her head resting on her hand, while she still kept her face turned from him. "I do not regret it, because it has given us the Republic. I glory in the Republic which has made me your equal." Bending over her, he said in a low voice, "I love you and am worthy of your love. Mademoiselle, listen to me. Come with me while there is yet time. Give me but the right to be your protector. I will protect you as the man guards the object of his purest, his deepest affection." In his fervor he bent over her until his lips almost touched her hair. "I will win a name that even you will be proud to own. Edmé, come with me. It is the love of years that speaks to you thus—Come!" and he took her hand in his. As his fingers closed upon hers she sprang to her feet.
"Do not touch me," she cried, with a tone almost of terror. "I will hear no more. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see you. Go! for the love of heaven, leave me."
For a moment Tournay stood still. Her words wounded him to the quick, yet as they stabbed deepest, he loved her the more. Without speaking again he turned and left her. As he descended the stairs and passed out through the broken doorway he vowed within himself that despite her pride, despite what she might say or do, he would yet find means to save her.
An hour passed, and Edmé remained in the salon where Tournay had left her. The spirit she had shown a short time before seemed much subdued. Darkness had settled down over the room, and she felt herself alone and deserted. A current of air, coming through the broken doorway, swept up the stairs into the apartment, chilling her with its cold breath. She wondered what had become of Father Ambrose and old Matthieu, and whether Agatha had deserted her. Yet she did not seek for them. Indeed, she did not know where to find them, for the house had all the silence of emptiness.
She tried to plan what she should do in case she had been entirely abandoned, but her brain, usually so active, seemed benumbed. She could not think. Conscious that she must shake off this feeling of helplessness, she was about to rise and go in search of a light, when she heard a footstep outside in the corridor. "Agatha has come back," she thought, and stepped forward to meet her maid. The sound of footsteps approached until they reached the door of the salon; there they seemed to hesitate.
Edmé was on the point of calling Agatha by name, when the door was pushed open and a man entered and passed stealthily across the floor of the salon into the ante-chamber without noticing her presence. Edmé thrust her hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that was upon her lips.
The man was evidently familiar with the surroundings, for almost immediately the light of a candle shone out from the ante-room, throwing a faint glow upon the polished floor of the salon. Edmé had seen him very imperfectly in the darkness. She was uncertain whether he was one of the mob, returned alone for plunder, or one of the lackeys of her household who had got the better of his terror and returned to the château.
Unable to bear the suspense, she advanced toward the door of the ante-room. Her heart beat rapidly as she placed her hand upon the door, which had been left ajar. She hesitated one moment, then summoning up the courage that had sustained her during the whole of that terrible afternoon, she boldly pushed the door open and looked into the room. To her amazement she saw, bending over a cabinet, her cousin, the Marquis de Lacheville. The marquis held a candle in one hand while he searched hurriedly for something in the drawer of the cabinet. In his haste and anxiety he threw out the contents of each drawer as he opened it till the floor was littered with papers. So intent was he upon his search that he did not hear Edmé's approach.
"Monsieur de Lacheville!" she said in a low tone. Upon hearing his name, the marquis uttered a cry like that of a hunted animal, and turning, confronted her.
"Mademoiselle de Rochefort, you here! How you startled me!" he exclaimed, endeavoring to control himself; but his knees shook, and his lips twitched nervously.
"Your coming gave me a start also, monsieur. You glided across the floor of the salon so like a phantom, I did not know who it was, nor what to think."
"I have just arrived from Paris, where I have been in hiding for months," he stammered. "Upon seeing the doors all battered down and the frightful disorder in the lower halls, I thought the château must be deserted and that you had sought some place of refuge. Knowing that in times past the baron, your father, was in the habit of keeping money in this old secretary, I have been ransacking it from top to bottom. I have need of a considerable sum; but I find nothing here—not a sou."
Edmé noticed that his dress was in great disorder and that his face was pale and haggard. Every few moments he put up his hand in an attempt to stop the nervous twitching of the mouth which he seemed unable to control.
"My nerves have been much shaken lately," he said, as she looked at him with wonder. And then he laughed discordantly. The sound of the mirthless laughter, accompanied by no change in the expression of his face, was painful to Edmé's ears.
"I have been pursued," he said, "hunted in Paris like a dog, but I have given them the slip; they shall not overtake me now." The wild look in his eyes became more intense. "I am going to leave France; I have a friend whom I can trust waiting for me near at hand. Together in disguise we are going to the frontier—either to Belgium or Germany. We shall be safe there. But I must have some more money, money for our journey." His fear had so bereft him of his reason that he apparently forgot the presence of his cousin, the mistress of the house, and turned once more to the old writing-desk to recommence his search with feverish haste.
"To Germany!" cried Edmé joyfully. "You are going to Germany? then you can take me with you. We can leave this unhappy blood-stained country for a land of law and order."
The marquis turned upon her sharply.
"Why did not your father take you with him to England?" he demanded.
"Why? You have no need to ask the question. He went upon some secret business for King Louis. He went away unexpectedly. When he left he imagined that I, a woman, living in quiet seclusion, would be perfectly safe, notwithstanding the disordered state of the country even at that time."
"Can you not find a place of refuge with some friend here in France?" asked de Lacheville. "The journey I am about to undertake will be full of danger and fatigue."
"I am not afraid of danger," replied Edmé, "and as for fatigue, I am strong and able to support it."
"But," persisted de Lacheville, "if you could find some suitable refuge here it would be so much better."
"I cannot," retorted Edmé, in a decided tone of voice, "and I prefer to accompany you to Germany, although it seems to me that you offer your escort somewhat reluctantly."
"The fact is, Cousin Edmé," replied the marquis, "I cannot take you with me. Alone, my escape will be difficult; with you it will be impossible."
Edmé looked at him for a moment with open-eyed wonder, then she repeated the word. "Impossible! Do you mean to tell me that you, a kinsman, are going to leave me here to meet whatever fate may befall me, while you save yourself by flight?"
"No, no, you do not understand me," the marquis replied, his pale face flushing. "It is for your own sake that I cannot take you. It will mean almost certain capture. If, as I said before, you could remain in some place of safety in France for a little while"—
"I am ready to run whatever risk you do," replied the girl coolly. "When do you start?"
"Mademoiselle, this is madness," exclaimed de Lacheville, pacing the floor. "Can you not listen to reason?"
The sound of shouting in the distance caused him to stop suddenly and run to the window. The candle had burned down to the socket and went out with a few last feeble flickers. The cries of Gardin's ruffians were borne to him on the wind.
The slight composure which he had managed to regain during his talk with Edmé left him again, and he turned toward her, the trembling, shaking coward that he was when she had first discovered him.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered, his hand shaking as he put it to his lips.
"I have heard it in this very room to-day," replied Edmé, looking at him with disdain.
"They are coming here again," he whispered hoarsely. "But they shall not find me," he exclaimed fiercely, clenching his fist and shaking it in a weak menace toward the spot whence the sound came. "I have a swift horse in the courtyard beneath. In an hour I shall be safe from them," and he prepared to leave the room.
The ordeal of the afternoon had told on Edmé's nerves and the thought of being left alone again made her desperate.
"You shall not leave me here alone," she cried, seizing his arm. "You were born a man—behave like one. Devise some means to take me from this place at once. Do not leave me alone to face those wretches again, or I shall believe you are a coward."
De Lacheville roughly released himself from her grasp.
"I care not what you think of me," he snarled. "It is each for himself. I cannot imperil my safety for a woman. I must escape." And he rushed from the room.
She heard the crunching of his horses' feet upon the gravel, and going to the window saw him ride rapidly away. The remembrance of the young Republican leader offering to risk his life for her, and the cowering figure of her cousin, indifferent to all but his own safety, flashed before her in quick contrast. She turned away from the window to find herself in the arms of Agatha, who had at that moment returned.
"Agatha," she exclaimed, "do your hear those hoof-beats? Monsieur de Lacheville is running away. He, a nobleman, is a coward and flies from danger, while another man, a Republican—oh, Agatha, Agatha, what are we to do? whom are we to believe; in whom should we trust?"
"Calm yourself, mademoiselle," replied Agatha, "and think only of what I have to tell you. Listen to me closely. We must leave at once. I have a plan of flight. I have been making a few hurried preparations."
"True, Agatha, in my bewilderment and anger, I forgot for the moment the danger we incur by remaining here. Where are Father Ambrose and Matthieu?"
"Matthieu is here in the château; he says he will never desert you as long as you can have need of his poor services. Father Ambrose has disappeared, but I think he is in a place of safety. But now you are to be thought of. Will you trust me?"
"How can you ask that, Agatha? Have you not always proved faithful?"
"I mean, can you trust me to lead, and will you follow and be guided by my suggestions?"
"I will do just as you may direct. I know you have a wise head, Agatha."
"This is my plan, then," continued the maid; "listen carefully while I tell it to you."
An hour later the two women, dressed as peasants, with faces and hands brown from apparent exposure to the sun in the hayfield, left the park behind the château de Rochefort, and made their way along a hedge-bound lane that wound through the fields. As they reached the crest of a hill they stopped and looked back at the château. A red glow appeared in the eastern sky.
"Look, Agatha," said Edmé, "morning is coming, the sun is about to rise."
Suddenly the glow leaped into a broad flame which lit up the whole sky.
"'Tis the château on fire!" cried both women in one breath, and clinging to each other they stood and watched it burn.
The first object that Robert Tournay saw as he rode into the inn yard at La Thierry was a horse reeking with sweat. The next moment he was greeted by the smiling face of Gaillard, who came out of the inn. "Have you brought the passport?" cried Tournay eagerly, as he grasped his friend by the hand.
For reply Gaillard took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and disclosed the seal of the Committee of Public Safety. "Am I in time?" he asked. "I have ridden post haste to get here with it. Can I serve you further?"
"Come into the inn, and I'll tell you," replied Tournay. "I am almost exhausted and must have something to eat."
Ordering some supper and a bottle of wine, which were brought at once, Tournay helped Gaillard and himself bountifully. They ate and drank for a few minutes in silence, Gaillard waiting for him to speak.
Gaillard was rather short in stature, with a pair of broad, athletic shoulders. His face was freckled, and animated by a pair of particularly active blue eyes. A large mouth, instead of adding to his plainness, was rather attractive than otherwise, for on all occasions it would widen into the most encouraging, good-natured smile, showing two rows of regular, white teeth, firmly set in a strong jaw.
After he had partaken of a little food and drink, Tournay recounted to Gaillard the substance of what had taken place at the château, leaving out most of his final interview with Edmé de Rochefort, but dwelling on her flat refusal to accept his escort to the frontier.
The actor listened to him intently and in silence; his face, usually humorous, expressive of deep and earnest thought.
"Now what do you advise?" asked Tournay, as he pushed back his plate and emptied the last of the wine into Gaillard's glass.
"What plan have you?" questioned Gaillard.
"I mean to take her away from here at all hazards," answered Tournay.
"Quite right," nodded Gaillard.
"But I can't very well pick her up and carry her off bodily," continued Tournay. "And if I did she would be quite capable of surrendering herself into the hands of the first committee in the first town where they stop us to examine our passport."
"Then we must induce her to go of her own free will."
"Which she will not do," replied Tournay gloomily.
"It seems to me," said Gaillard, speaking slowly, while he held his glass of wine to the light and inspected it minutely, "that if some one should approach Mademoiselle de Rochefort, purporting to come from some of her friends who have already gone abroad, and should say he was sent secretly to conduct her to them, she would be willing to go with him."
"Unless she suspected him to be an impostor, she might possibly go," replied Tournay.
"He will have to convince her that he is not an impostor, and after a night spent in the château alone she is more likely to believe in him," was Gaillard's reply. "How about Gardin," he asked suddenly. "Do you anticipate any further trouble from that quarter?"
"I hardly think so," replied Tournay. "I shall go back to the château at once and remain in the vicinity all night unknown to Mademoiselle de Rochefort. See if you cannot procure a carriage here suitable for a long journey. Then come up the château road. I shall be in waiting for you at the entrance to the park. We will confer together as to a plan of action to be carried out at daylight."
"Good," replied Gaillard; "I will set about my part of the work at once."
The two men rose from the table; Gaillard went to the inn stables and Tournay mounted his horse and rode toward the château.
He had not made half the distance between the village and the château when he heard a footstep crunch on the gravel of the road, and reined in his horse just as the figure of a man crept by him.
"Who is there?" cried Tournay, clicking the hammer of his pistol.
"A good citizen," was the reply in a timid voice.
"Father, is it you?" exclaimed Tournay, springing from his horse and approaching the figure. "Is all well at the château?"
"It is my son, Robert," cried the old man. "I did not recognize your voice until after I had spoken; but I am no good citizen of your present disorderly Republic."
"Is all well at the château?" repeated Robert Tournay.
"Well? How can we all be well when the doors are broken in and the furniture strewn about the place in pieces? Can I call all well when"—
"Mademoiselle Edmé?" interrupted Robert, with impatience, "how about her?"
"She has gone," said Matthieu Tournay.
"Gone!" cried Robert, clutching his father by the shoulder. "Gone—how and where?"
"You need not be alarmed for her safety," said the old man; "she is with Agatha,—a brave, clever girl, capable of anything. They set out this very night to seek a refuge with some relatives of Agatha who will keep them in safety."
"And you permitted them to go?" demanded the younger Tournay, almost shaking his father in his excitement.
"Permitted them? Yes, and encouraged them. I would myself have gone with them if I had not feared that my feebleness would impede rather than assist their flight. As it is, you need have no apprehension; when Agatha undertakes a thing she carries it through, and mademoiselle also is resolute and strong-willed. They will be safe enough, I warrant."
"Where did they go?" asked Robert.
"I've promised not to tell," said the old man doggedly.
"Father," exclaimed young Tournay, "do you not see how important it is that I should know where they have gone? If you have any affection for mademoiselle you will tell me. Cannot you trust your own son?"
"Will you promise not to prevent their going?" replied the old man.
Tournay thought for a moment. "Yes."
"To La Haye, in the province of Touraine, near the boundary of La Vendée."
"Will they reach there in safety?" inquired Tournay, half to himself.
"You need have no alarm on that score. They have disguised themselves as peasants; no one will be able to recognize them. Look!" he added suddenly, pointing in the direction of the château.
A tongue of flame shot into the night air, then another and another followed in quick succession.
"Is the château on fire?" cried Robert in consternation.
As if in answer the flames burst fiercely forth, and the noble old pile stood revealed to them by the light of the fire that consumed it.
The surrounding landscape became brilliant as day, and the great oaks of the park waved their bare branches frantically in the direction of the edifice they had sheltered so many years; seeming to sigh pityingly as one turret after another fell crashing to the ground.
Young Tournay looked around to see if any of the attacking party were still lurking in the vicinity; but with the exception of himself and his father, no human eye was witness of the burning.
"Gardin's men must have ignited that during their drunken invasion of the wine-cellar," he exclaimed excitedly. Then in the next breath he added, "Thank God! Mademoiselle has been spared this sight."
Old Tournay stood looking at the conflagration in silence; then turning away with a sigh, he said simply, "There goes the only home I have ever known; where my father lived before me and where you were born, Robert. I must now find a new place to pass what few days of life remain to me."
Tournay laid his hand on his father's arm. "Will you come with me to Paris?" he asked.
"No, no," replied his father. "I am not in sympathy with Paris, Robert, nor with your ways. I don't understand them, boy. It may be all right for you. I know you are a good son, you have always been that, but I shall find a shelter in La Thierry. None will molest an old man like me."
Leading his horse by the bridle, Tournay walked back to the village with his father. On the way they were met by Gaillard, who had seen the flames and had guessed their meaning.
Robert Tournay explained the situation to him as they all went back to the inn. Greatly in need of rest, Robert threw himself down to wait until the morrow.
They were up with the dawn, when Gaillard had a new suggestion to offer.
"You must return at once to Paris, my friend, for you must arrive there before Gardin. You will need all the influence of your own military position and the aid of your most powerful friends to enable you to meet the charges that man will bring against you for frustrating the arrest. I will try to find mademoiselle at La Haye, and will meet you at our lodgings as soon as possible."
Robert grasped his companion's hand warmly.
"I shall never forget your friendship, Gaillard."
"You may remember it as long as you like if you will not refer to it. I can never repay you for your many acts of friendship toward me."
"But your profession," interrupted Tournay, "how can you leave the theatre all this time? How will your place be filled?"
"Oh, it will be filled very well. I arranged all that before leaving; whether I shall find it vacant or not when I return is another matter. But it does not trouble me; let it not trouble you, my friend." And with a cheerful wave of the hand, Gaillard departed.
In the southern part of the province of Touraine, in the village of La Haye, lived Pierre Louchet, or as his neighbors called him, Père Louchet.
Logically speaking, Louchet, being a bachelor, had no right to this title, but as he took a paternal interest in all the young people of the village, they had fitted him with this sobriquet, partly in a spirit of gentle irony and partly in affectionate recognition of his fatherly attitude toward them.
Père Louchet lived alone in a little cottage that was always as neat and well-kept as if some feminine hand held sway there. Indeed, if he fell sick, or was too busy with the crops on his small farm to pay proper attention to his household duties, there were plenty of women from the neighboring cottages who were glad to come in and make his gruel or sweep up his hearth, so it was not on account of any unpopularity with the gentler sex that he lived on in a state of celibacy.
In a society where marriage was almost universal, such an eccentricity as that exhibited by Pierre Louchet in remaining single did not escape comment. Indeed at the age of fifty he was as often bantered on the subject as he had been at thirty. But neither the raillery and innuendoes of the neighbors nor the entreaties, threats, and cajoleries of his sister, Jeanne Maillot, had ever moved him to take a wife.
"It's a family disgrace," said Jeanne, putting her red hands on her hips, and regarding her elder brother with a look of scorn. "Here am I ten years younger than you, and with five children. And Marie who lives at Fulgent has eight. And you, the only man in our family, sit there by the chimney and smoke your pipe contentedly, and let the young girls of La Haye grow up around you one after another, marry, settle down, and have daughters who are old enough to be married by this time; and you do nothing to keep up the name of Louchet."
"'T is not much of a name," replied Pierre.
"It is one your father had, and was quite good enough for me, until I took Maillot."
"If I should marry, there would be less for your own children when I am gone."
"I'm sure it was your happiness I was thinking of before all," replied Jeanne, mollified at this presentation of the case.
"If it's my happiness you are thinking about, let me stay as I am. I and my pipe are quite company enough, and if I want more I only have to step across a field and I can find you and your good husband Maillot." And Père Louchet's eyes would twinkle kindly while his pipe sent up a thicker wreath of smoke.
One young woman once declared maliciously that Père Louchet squinted. But those who heard the remark declared that it was because he was always endeavoring to look in any direction except towards her who sought to attract his attention, and after that the slander was never repeated.
One morning in December the neighborhood of La Haye was set all in a flutter of curiosity by a sudden increase in the family in Père Louchet's cottage.
As an explanation of it he remarked with his eyes twinkling more than usual: "I am getting old and need help about the place, and that is why a nephew and a niece of my brother-in-law Maillot have come to live with me."
Paul and Elise Durand were natives of "up north" and had never before been as far south as La Haye. The woman was about twenty-five years old, brown as a berry, with a sturdy figure and strong arms. Her brother was tall and slender. He said he was nearly twenty, yet he was small for his age and his entire innocence of any beard gave him a still more boyish appearance. He spoke with a softer accent than most country lads in those parts, but that was because he came from the neighborhood of Paris; and then he and his sister had both been in the service of a great "Seigneur" before the Revolution.
In the neighboring province of La Vendée the peasants, led by the priests and nobles, were threatening to take up arms in support of the monarchy. But the inhabitants of La Haye took little interest in political affairs, and although they shared somewhat the sentiment of opposition in La Vendée to the new government in Paris, they busied themselves generally with their vineyards and their crops and took no active part in politics. Paul and Elise were content in the fact that their new home was so quiet and so remote from the strife that was raging so fiercely all about them.
One morning, shortly after her arrival, Elise was resting by the stile which divided the field of Père Louchet from that of his brother-in-law. She had placed on the stile the bucket containing six fresh cheeses wrapped in cool green grape leaves, while she herself sat down upon the bottom step beside it, to remove her wooden sabot and shake out a little pebble that had been irritating her foot. The wooden shoe replaced, she took up her pail and was about to spring blithely over the stile, when she drew back with a little cry of surprise mingled with alarm. Standing on the other side, his arm resting on the top step, leaned a young man who had evidently been watching her closely.
Drawing a short pipe from between a row of white teeth, his mouth expanded in a wide grin.
"Did I frighten you?" he said, in a slight foreign accent but with an extremely pleasant tone of voice.
"Not at all," answered Elise, looking at him frankly. "I'm not easily frightened. If you will move a little to one side, I can cross the stile and go about my affairs."
"What have you in the pail?" asked the man, as he complied with her request.
"Cheeses," she answered, as he came lightly over the wall. "It's clear you're not of this part of the country or you would never have asked that question."
"I am not from this part of the country," said the stranger. "You ought to know that by my accent."
"Where is your native place?" asked Elise, her curiosity aroused.
"A long distance from here—Prussia. Have you ever heard of that country?"
"Yes."
"We are most of us against the Republic—there," said he. "I am, for one," and he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. She made no reply. "Let me carry your cheeses," he said, laying his hand upon the bucket.
"They are not heavy," said Elise, "and I must hurry home."
"All ways are the same to me and I will go along with you," he said, taking the bucket from her. "It's heavy for you."
"It's no burden for me, and as I don't know you I prefer to go home by myself," she said frankly.
"Oh, I'm a merry fellow—you need not fear me. I am your friend."
"I have no way of being sure of that," was the reply, "though you don't look as if you could be an enemy."
"I should be glad for an opportunity to prove myself your friend. And I could prove that I am no stranger by telling you a good deal about yourself and your brother Paul."
"Indeed," was all Elise vouchsafed in reply, but she looked a little uncomfortable.
"I might tell you of an order of arrest that was not carried out; of a château burned; of the midnight flight of two women and the arrival at La Haye of a woman and her younger brother; all this I might tell you, with the assurance that these secrets are safe in the keeping of a friend."
"How will you prove that you are a friend?" Elise said in a low voice with apparent unconcern, although she felt her heart beating with fear.
"The fact that I have just told you what I know and shall tell no one else, should be one proof," he said. Elise did not answer, but looked at him with a keen expression as if she would read his thoughts.
He had a frank, open face, the very plainness of which bespoke the honesty of the man.
"Suppose I should say that I came from Hagenhof in Prussia and that I was sent here by friends of your brother who have gone there. Suppose I should say that they wanted you to join them and that I could take you there with little risk to yourselves, would you be inclined to trust me then?"
"What risk do we incur by remaining where we are?" inquired Elise, without answering his question.
"You will always run the risk of discovery while in France," he replied. "But tell me, are you inclined to trust me?"
"Yes," answered Elise, stopping and looking him full in the face. "I am."
"Good," he cried, setting down the pail and extending his hand.
"I am disposed to trust you," she went on, "but in order to do so fully I should wish to see a letter from the friend you speak of."
"It is dangerous to carry such a writing," he replied significantly.
"True, but you can mention names."
"I can, and will,—names your brother will know well. The Baron von Valdenmeer, for instance. Besides, if I were your enemy I need not come thus secretly. Your enemies can use open means."
"I said"—Elise hesitated—"I am disposed to believe you are what you claim to be, but I can do nothing without the consent of my brother."
"Good! will you obtain his consent?"
"I will try."
"Good again. You will succeed. Talk with him and get his consent to leave here. And as soon as possible I will make all the arrangements for the journey so that we may leave in a week or at the latest a fortnight. Then if you have not persuaded your brother that it is for his interest to go with me, I will try and add my arguments to yours."
"I trust you will find us ready," said Elise; "but in the mean time shall you remain here?"
"No, I must go to Paris," was the Prussian's answer. "If you should have occasion to communicate with me, a word sent to Hector Gaillard, 15 Rue des Mathurins, will reach me. But do not send any word unless it is of the greatest importance, and then employ a messenger whom you can trust."
"Is that your name?" asked the woman.
"That is my name while in France. Can you remember that and the address?"
"I can."
"Then good-by. And a word at parting," he said—turning after he had leaped the fence. "It is perhaps needless to caution you, but my advice would be that your brother should not go too often to the village. His hands are too small. Good-by." And he walked off up the lane smoking his short pipe, and whistling gayly.
Two days later Gaillard joined his friend Tournay in Paris. He found Tournay much more hopeful than when he had left him, and his spirits rose still more as he heard Gaillard's news.
"It is Wednesday," Tournay said. "On Saturday the convention has promised to send me back with my dispatches. Can you be ready for La Haye by Saturday morning?"
"Yes," said Gaillard, "twelve hours earlier if necessary."
"It is agreed then for Saturday, unless the convention delays."
Three days after her meeting with Gaillard, Elise, on returning from a neighboring town where she had gone to dispose of some butter, found the kitchen deserted and the fire out. She had expected to find a bowl of hot potato soup and a plate of sausage and garlic. Instead she found a cold hearthstone and an empty casserole.
As usual, the first thought of the devoted sister was of Paul, and she called his name loudly. It did not take long to ascertain that the house was empty, and with her heart beating wildly with anxiety she ran outside the cottage crying, "Oh, Paul, my child,—my brother, Paul!" There was no answer save from the cattle in the outhouse who shook their stanchions, impatient for their evening meal. She looked about for Père Louchet. He also was absent. Evidently he had driven in the cows and had been prevented from feeding them. Something serious had happened, and it must have occurred within an hour, for at this time the cattle were usually feeding.
Elise sat down for a moment on an upturned basket to collect herself. Her first thought was to go to Maillot's in search of them. They might be there, yet it would take an hour to go to Maillot's and return. And then what if Louchet and Paul were not there! What if the couple had been murdered and the bodies were still on the farm? Elise shuddered at the thought, and called loud again, "Paul, Paul, my brother, art thou not here?"
From the hay in the loft above came a smothered sound. With a glad cry Elise sprang up the stairs, to see Père Louchet's head and shoulders emerging from under a pile of clover.
"Where is Paul?" cried Elise, pouncing upon him before he had freed himself from the hay, and almost dragging him to his feet. He blinked at her for a moment while he picked the stray wisps of straw from his hair and neck.
"Gone," he said laconically.
"Gone! Where?" cried Elise, frantically taking him by the shoulders and shaking him so that the hayseed and straw flew from his coat. "Père Louchet, what is the matter? I never saw you like this before; have you been drinking?"
"No," he said slowly, and then as if the thought occurred to him for the first time, he went toward a cask of cherry brandy which stood in a corner of the granary and drew almost a tin-cupful.
With blazing eyes Elise saw him measure out the liquor slowly, with a hand that trembled slightly, and put the cup to his lips. She felt as if she must spring upon him and dash the cup from his hands, but she controlled herself with an effort. Louchet drained off the brandy to the last drop, straightened up, and looked at Elise. He acted like a different man.
"Paul was taken from here about an hour ago by three men. They had papers and red seals and tricolor cockades enough to take a dozen."
"And you let them take him?" cried Elise.
Père Louchet looked at his niece quizzically with his twinkling eye.
"There were three of them, Elise, my child, and they had big red seals and swore a great deal."
"Of course," admitted the woman hastily, "you could do nothing by force."
"I did try to prevent them from going upstairs where Paul was," the old man replied, "but one of them knocked me on the head and into a corner where I lay like a log."
"Oh that I had been here," moaned Elise, as she and Louchet went toward the house. "If I could only know where they have taken Paul!"
"To Tours," replied Père Louchet with decision.
"How do you know?" asked Elise quickly.
"I remember it plainly now. When I lay in the corner with a kind of dazed feeling in my head, not wishing to get up and stir around, I saw one of the men—not the one who hit me, but a smaller man with a larger hat and more cockades and more seals, take a paper out of his pocket and read it to Paul. I tried to make out what it said, for although I could hear every word that was uttered, I could not get an idea in my head that would hold together; but I was able to catch the word Tours; I am sure they have gone to Tours."
"How is your head now, Père Louchet?" asked Elise with feverish eagerness.
"As clear as a bell," was the reply. "Let me have one little nip more of that brandy and it will be clearer."
"Can you ride?"
"Like a boy."
"Good! Make up a bundle of food and clothing for a two-days' journey and I'll have a horse at the door by the time you are ready."
Ten minutes later Père Louchet, with a bundle of necessities strapped on his back, was mounted on one of his best horses which Elise had saddled for him.
"Now, where am I to ride to?" he demanded, directing his twinkling eye down upon his niece.
"Ride to Paris. Seek out Gaillard, 15 Rue Mathurins; give him this letter. That is all I ask of you."
"And you—what are you going to do?" said Père Louchet, putting the letter in his inside breast pocket with a slap on the outside to emphasize its safety.
"I ride toward Tours," replied the intrepid woman.
Paul Durand was confined in the prison at Tours. The prison was so crowded that he had to be placed in a small room at the top of the building adjoining the quarters occupied by the jailer and his family.
Paul was paler than usual, the result of fatigue from the long, rapid ride from La Haye, but he showed no signs of fear and held up his head bravely as the jailer entered the room. The latter carried a bundle under his arm.
"You are to take these clothes," he said, "go into the adjoining room, and put them on in place of the garments you have on."
Paul took the bundle and went into the next room. For fifteen minutes the jailer sat upon the one chair the room contained, humming and jingling his bunch of keys. Then the door into the outer corridor was thrown open and a large man entered. The jailer sprang to his feet with alacrity.
"Where's the prisoner, Potin?" demanded the newcomer in a harsh voice.
"In the next room, Citizen Lebœuf," replied Potin.
Leb[oe]uf strode toward the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
"I beg your pardon, Citizen Lebœuf, but the prisoner may not be ready to receive you."
"Well, there's no particular reason to be squeamish, is there?" asked Lebœuf, screwing his fat face into a leer.
"If you will wait another minute I think the prisoner will come out," suggested Potin deferentially, jingling his keys.
"Bah, you show your lodgers too much consideration, citizen jailer; you spoil them." Nevertheless Lebœuf allowed his hand to drop from the latch and took a few impatient strides across the floor.
The door opened and, turning, Lebœuf saw Mademoiselle de Rochefort standing on the threshold. She was thinner than when she left La Thierry: but her eyes had lost none of their fire, and she looked Citizen Lebœuf in the face without flinching. His dull eyes kindled while he looked at her some moments without speaking.
"Do you know who I am?" he inquired in his thick, husky voice.
"Yes, I overheard the jailer call you Citizen Lebœuf."
"Right. I am Citizen Lebœuf; and do you know why you have been brought here?"
"A paper was read to me last night which pretended to give some explanation," was her quiet rejoinder.
"In order to save time and expense your trial will take place at Tours, rather than at Paris. I am one of the judges of this district."
Mademoiselle Edmé looked at him with an expression of indifference.
"You do not appear to be afraid."
"I am not afraid," was the quiet reply.
Lebœuf eyed her with evident admiration.
"Why did you put on boy's clothes?" he asked abruptly.
"In order to avoid detection," she answered frankly, coming forward and seating herself in the chair which Potin had vacated upon her entrance. Lebœuf was standing before her, hat in hand, an act of politeness he had not shown to any one for years.
"And you did it well," he said. "You threw them off the track completely. Had it not been for me, your hiding-place would never have been discovered. It was a splendid trick you played upon those bunglers from Paris." And he slapped his thigh in keen appreciation of it, and laughed hoarsely.
"I will take your boy's clothes with me," he continued as he prepared to leave the room, "lest you should be tempted to put them on again from force of habit. We don't want you turning into a boy any more. No, you make too pretty a woman." Then going up to the jailer he said something to him in a low voice which Edmé could not hear. Potin seemed to be remonstrating feebly. Lebœuf scowled, and from his manner appeared to insist upon the point at issue.
"Are you sure you are not afraid?" he said again abruptly to Edmé as he went to the door and stood with one hand on the latch looking back into the room.
"No!"
He looked at her admiringly.
"Remember you are a woman now and have a perfect right to be afraid; also to kick and scream when anything is the matter."
Edmé made no reply.
"In case you should ever feel afraid," he said significantly, "just send for Lebœuf, that's all," and with this he left the room.
Edmé remained in Potin's charge for two days. The jailer treated her with great consideration, and she congratulated herself upon having fallen into such kindly hands. She momentarily expected to be summoned before the Tribunal. She did not know what the result would be; but she looked forward to her trial with impatience. In any event it would end the suspense in which she was living.
On the afternoon of the second day Potin entered her room, accompanied by one of his deputies.
"You must prepare to go with this man, citizeness," said the little jailer.
"Has the Tribunal sent for me? she inquired.
"Not yet. But you are to be transferred to another prison."
"I prefer to stay here," she said. "Cannot you ask them to allow me to remain?"
"You have no choice in the matter, nor have I; I have only my orders."
"From whom did the order come? From that man Lebœuf who came here the other day?" she demanded quickly.
"I am not at liberty to say," replied Potin, shifting his feet uneasily.
"Are you forbidden to tell me where I am to be taken?" was her next question.
"To prison boat Number Four. The city prisons are so full," he continued, in answer to her look of surprised inquiry, "that great numbers have to be lodged in the boats anchored in the river. Number Four is one of the largest," he added as if by way of consolation.
In company of the deputy Edmé was conducted to the floating prison on the Loire. As they stepped over the side they were met by a little round-shouldered man with splay feet. His face was wrinkled and brown almost to blackness; his dress showed that he had a fondness for bright colors, as he wore a purple shirt with a crimson sash, a bright yellow neckcloth, and a red cap. The deputy turned over his charge to him, received his quittance, and went away.
Edmé was conducted to a room in the stern of the vessel. It was a small room and to her surprise she found it furnished comfortably, almost luxuriously. On a table in the centre stood a carafe of wine and a basket of sweet biscuit. Two or three chairs and a couch completed the equipment of the room. At the extreme end, the porthole had been enlarged into a window which looked out over the river. This window was closed by wooden bars. Otherwise the place looked more like the comfortable quarters of some ship's officer than a jail.
"Is this where I am to remain?" she asked of her new jailer.
The man nodded and withdrew, locking the door after him.
Edmé threw herself into a chair. It was intended that she should at least be comfortable while in prison, and this thought helped to keep up her spirits. She rose, took a glass of wine and some of the biscuit, and then after finishing this refreshment, feeling fatigued, she lay down upon the couch and fell asleep.
It was nearly dark when she awoke. Lying on the couch she could see the dying light of the short December day shining feebly in at the window, reflected by the metal of a swinging lamp over the table. As she lay there she became aware of a noise that had evidently awakened her. It was the sound of wailing and lamentation, accompanied by the creaking of timber and the swash of water.
Rising from the bed she went to the window and looked out over the river.
Going down the stream were two other prison boats. They were scarcely fifty yards away and proceeded slowly with the current, the water lapping against their black sides. They were old vessels, and creaked and groaned as if they were about to fall apart from very rottenness. From between their decks came the sound of human voices raised in cries of fear, despair, and lamentation; all mingled in a strange, horrible medley, which, borne over the water by the sighing night wind, struck a chill into Edmé's heart.
The vessels, stealing down the river with their sailless masts against the evening sky, looked like phantom ships conveying cargoes of unrestful, tortured spirits into darkness. The sight so fascinated Edmé that she stood watching them until they drifted out of sight and the cries of those on board grew fainter and fainter in the distance. So absorbed had she been as not to hear the lock click in the door and a man enter the room. She only became aware of his presence on hearing a heavy sigh just behind her, and turning her head she saw Lebœuf's heavy face at her shoulder. She gave a startled cry and stepped nearer the window.
"It is a sad sight, is it not," he remarked, with a look of sympathy ill-suited to the leer in his eyes, "and one that might easily frighten the strongest of us."
"It is your sudden appearance, when I thought I was entirely alone, that startled me," replied Edmé, regaining her composure with an effort. "I was so intent upon looking at those boats that I did not hear you come in."
"I see you didn't. I may be bulky, but I'm active and can move quietly," and he gave a chuckle.
Edmé thought him even more repulsive than at the time of his visit to the prison. His face seemed coarser and more inflamed, and his eyes, so dull and heavy before, shone as if animated by drink.
"Where are they taking those poor people?" she asked; "for I presume those are prison boats."
"They are," was the reply in a thick utterance. "Just like this. Are you sure that you want to know where they are being taken?"
"Would I have asked you otherwise?"
"Are you sure you won't faint?"
Edmé gave a shrug of contempt. She saw that he was trying to work upon her fears, and felt her spirit rise in antagonism.
The look of admiration that he gave her was more offensive than his pretended sympathy. Leaning forward he whispered, "They are going down the river for about two miles. There they will get rid of their troublesome freight and return empty."
"What do you mean?" asked Edmé. "Where do they land the prisoners?"
"They don't land them, they water them," and he gave a low, inward laugh. "They drown every prisoner on board. Tie them together in couples, man and woman, and tumble them overboard by the score."
Edmé gave a cry of horror. "It is too horrible to be true. I don't believe it!"
"Why not?" asked Lebœuf; "drowning is an easy death, and every one of them has been fairly and honestly condemned. This boat is to follow in its turn. Every prisoner here has looked upon the sun for the last time, though not one of them knows just when he is to die."
The idea of such wholesale murder seemed so utterly impossible to her that in her mind she set down Lebœuf's whole account as a fiction of his drink-besotted brain, called up to frighten her. Yet at the moment when she turned from him in disgust to look out of the window, she saw that their own vessel had begun to move slowly through the water.
"We have started," said Lebœuf, as if he were mentioning a matter of the smallest consequence.
"You say that every one upon this boat is a condemned person," said Edmé quietly, repressing her terror with an effort.
Lebœuf nodded.
"But I am not. I have not even had a hearing."
"No?" exclaimed Lebœuf in a tone of surprise. "Then those jailers have made another mistake."
Edmé advanced toward him one step, and in a tone which made the huge man draw back, said:—
"I was brought here by your order!"
"Oh, no, I knew nothing of the change. It was that villain Potin."
"I was brought here by your order," she repeated. "I demand that I be taken where I can have a trial."
"Potin has made another mistake," was all Lebœuf would vouchsafe in reply.
"If there has been any mistake, it is yours. I demand that you set it right."
"It is too late!"
"There must be some one aboard this vessel who has the power to do it, if you have not. I will go and appeal for aid," and she took a step toward the door.
Lebœuf interposed his bulky body between her and the means of exit; closed and locked the door on the inside.
"I will cry aloud. Some one will hear me," she said in desperation.
"Who will hear you above all that noise?" he inquired tersely.
The prisoners on the boat, now fully aware that their time of execution had come, were crying out against their fate,—some praying for mercy, some calling down the maledictions of heaven upon their butchers, while others wept silently.
"Merciful Virgin, protect me. I have lost all hope," cried Edmé, turning from Lebœuf and sinking despairingly upon her knees.
"Ah, now you are frightened!" exclaimed Lebœuf, "admit that you are frightened!"
"If it is any satisfaction to have succeeded in terrifying a woman unable to defend herself, I will not rob you of the pleasure, but know that it is not death, but the manner of it, that I fear."
"But you are afraid; you have confessed to it at last, and now Lebœuf will see that they do not harm you." He gave a grim chuckle as if he enjoyed having won his point. Rapidly pushing the table to one side, turning back the rug that covered the floor, he stooped; and to Edmé's astonished gaze lifted up a trap door in the floor of the cabin. Edmé drew back from the black hole at her feet.
"It is large enough to afford you air for several hours," Lebœuf said. "By that time I will get you out again. Quick, descend the steps."
Edmé, fearing further treachery, drew back in alarm. "I prefer to meet my fate here."
Lebœuf struck a light and by the rays of the lamp a ladder was revealed.
"I tell you it is certain death to remain here fifteen minutes longer. Even I could not save you then. The more they throw into the water the more frenzied they become for other victims. They will ransack the entire boat; but they won't find you down there. Lebœuf alone knows this place. Quick! If you would live to see the sun rise to-morrow, go down the steps of that ladder."
He took her by the shoulder to assist in the descent. His touch was so distasteful to her that she threw off his hand and went down the ladder unaided. "Make not the slightest sound, whatever you may hear going on up here above you, and wait patiently until I come to release you."
With these words the door was shut down and Lebœuf went out and up to the deck alone.
The vessel had reached a point in the river just outside the city. Here the stream narrowed and ran swiftly between the banks.
The sky was windy; and between the rifts of the high-banked clouds the moon shone fitfully. To the east lay the city of Tours, its spires standing out in sharp silhouette against the sky. On the river bank the wind swept over the dead, dry grass with a mournful, swaying sound and rattled the rotting halyards of the old hulk, which with one small sail set in the bow to keep it steady, made slowly down the river with the current, hugging the left bank as if fearful of trusting itself to the swifter depths beyond.
A rusty chain rasped through the hawse-hole, and the vessel swung at anchor.
In a small and close compartment in the ship's depths, totally without light, and with her nerves wrought upon by Lebœuf's appalling story, Edmé could only guess at what was happening above her head.
She knew that something terrible was taking place. She could hear a confusion of cries and trampling of feet; of hoarse shouts and commands; and she pictured in her imagination scenes quite as horrible as were actually taking place above her. In every wave that splashed against the vessel's side she could see the white face of a struggling, drowning creature, and every sound upon the vessel was the despairing death-note of a fresh victim. Through it all she could see the large face of Lebœuf leering at her with his bleary eyes. To have exchanged one fate for a worse one was to have gained nothing, and in her mental agony she almost envied those who a short time ago had been struggling helplessly in the hands of their executioners, and whose bodies now were quietly sleeping in the waters of the flowing river.
A quiet fell upon the vessel. The last cry had been uttered, the last command given, and no sound reached Edmé's ears but the soft plash of the water as it struck under the stern of the boat.
Then the remembrance of Lebœuf's face and look became still more vivid. She feared him in spite of all her courage; in spite of her pride that was greater than her courage, she feared him. The knowledge that he was aware of his power and took delight in it made the thought that she would soon have to face him there alone more terrible than her dread of the worst of deaths.
A footfall sounded on the floor above her head. That it was not Lebœuf's heavy tread, Edmé was certain. Rather than fall into his hands again she would trust herself to the mercies of the worst ruffian among the executioners, and she struck with her clenched hand a succession of quick knocks upon the trap.
The footsteps ceased, and in the stillness that followed Edmé called out to the man above her and told him where to find the opening. In another instant the door was lifted up and she came up into the cabin.
"Kill me," she cried out; "throw me into the river if it be your pleasure, but I implore you, do not let"—
The man's hand closed over her mouth, and lifting her in his arms he carried her across the cabin. The room was dark; either Lebœuf had put out the light when he left, or the newcomer had extinguished it, but Edmé saw that he bore her toward the window from which the lattice had been removed. She closed her eyes to meet the end. She felt herself swiftly lifted through the window, and then instead of water her feet struck a firm substance.
"Steady for one moment," said a voice in her ear as she opened her eyes in bewilderment to find herself standing on the seat of a small skiff, a man supporting her by the arm. Her face was on a level with the window, and looking back into the cabin she saw a light at the further end, as the bulky form of Lebœuf appeared at the door, lantern in hand, his heavy countenance made more ugly by an expression of surprise and rage.
Voices were heard in hot dispute, then came two pistol shots so close together as to seem almost one. A figure leaped through the smoke that poured from the window, and Edmé from her seat in the skiff's bow where she had been swung with little ceremony, saw a man cut the line, while the other bent over his oars and made the small craft fly away from the vessel, straight for the opposite shore. The man who had leaped from the window took his place silently in the stern. Placing one hand on the tiller, he turned and looked intently over his shoulder at the dark outline of the prison ship, which was rapidly receding into the gloom.
His hat had fallen off, and in the uncertain light Edmé saw for the first time that it was Robert Tournay.
Before a word could be uttered by any of them, a tongue of flame shot out from the vessel behind them, followed by a loud and sharp report. The dash of spray that swept over the boat told that the shot had struck the water close by them.
The man at the oars shook the water from his eyes and redoubled his efforts. "Head her down the river a little," he said.
"But the carriage is at least two miles above here," replied Tournay.
"No matter," answered Gaillard. "The shore here is too steep. We must land a little further down."
Tournay altered their course and steered the boat slantingly across the current.
They were now nearing the right-hand shore, which rose abruptly from the river to a height of some twenty feet. The current here was swifter, and the greatest caution had to be exercised. A second flash flamed out from the prison ship, a sound of crashing wood, and the little skiff seemed to leap into the air and then slide from under their feet, while the icy water of the Loire rushed in Edmé's ears,—strangling her and dragging her down, until it seemed as if the water's weight would crush her. Then she began to come upward with increasing velocity until at last, when she thought never to reach the surface, she felt her head rise above the water and saw the cloudy, threatening sky, which seemed to reel above her as she gasped for breath.
Another head shot to the surface by her side, and she felt herself sustained, to sink no more. The words: "Place your right hand upon my shoulder and keep your face turned down the stream away from the current," came to her ears as if in a dream. Instinctively she obeyed. With a few rapid strokes Tournay reached the shore. The bank overhung the river and under it the water ran rapidly.
With only one arm free he could not draw himself and Edmé up the steep incline. Twice he succeeded in catching a tuft of grass or projecting root, and each time the force of the current broke his hold upon it, and twirling them round like straws carried them on down the stream.
Gaillard, who had been struck by a splinter on the forehead, was at first stunned by the blow, and without struggling was swept fifty yards down the river. The cold water brought him back to consciousness, and he struck out for the shore. He noticed, some hundred yards below, a place where the river swept to the south and where the bank was considerably lower. Allowing himself to be borne along by the current, he took an occasional stroke to carry him in toward the shore, and made the point easily.
Drawing himself from the water by some overhanging bushes, he shook himself like a wet dog, and sitting on the river's edge proceeded to bind up his injured eye, while with the other he looked anxiously along the river-side. Suddenly he bent down and caught at an object in the water.
"Let me take the girl," he said quickly. "Now your hand on this bush—there!" And with a swift motion he drew Edmé up, and Tournay, relieved of her weight, swung himself to their side.
For a short time they lay panting on the bank. Gaillard was the first to get upon his feet.
"We shall perish of cold here," he exclaimed, springing up and down to warm his benumbed blood, while the wet ends of his yellow neckerchief flapped about his forehead.
"Can you walk, Mademoiselle de Rochefort?"
Edmé placed her hand upon her side to still the sharp shooting pain, and answered "Yes."
"Good; the road is only a few rods from here, but we must follow it at least two miles to the west."
"I shall be able to do it!"
As she uttered these words the pain in her side increased. She felt her strength leave her, and but for the support of Tournay's arm she would have fallen to the ground.
"She has fainted," cried Tournay in consternation.
"No," she remonstrated feebly, struggling with the numbness that was overpowering her. "It is the cold. Let me rest for a moment; I shall be better soon."
"Mademoiselle, you must walk, else you will die of cold," exclaimed Tournay. "Take her by the arm, Gaillard."
Instead of complying with the request, Gaillard stood with head bent forward peering up the road into the night gloom.
"Gaillard! man, do you not hear me?"
"The carriage! I hear the rattle of its wheels," cried Gaillard joyfully. "Agatha can always be depended upon to do the right thing at the right moment!"
"Hurry to meet her," cried Tournay; "tell her we are here!"
Gaillard sprang rapidly forward, shouting as he ran.
"Courage but a little moment longer," whispered Tournay, and taking Edmé in his arms he followed Gaillard as fast as his burden permitted.
She had not entirely lost consciousness, but cold and fatigue had combined to enervate and render her powerless of motion.
In a half swoon she felt herself carried she knew not whither. She felt Tournay's strong arms about her, and a sense of security came over her as she faintly realized that each step took her further away from the dreaded Lebœuf.
Tournay hastened toward the carriage. The wind swept freshly over the marshes, and he held Edmé close as if to shield her from the cold. Her hair blew back into his face, covering his eyes and touching his lips. As he felt her soft tresses against his cheek his heart throbbed so that he forgot cold, fatigue, and danger.... Where they blinded him he gently put the locks aside with one hand in a caressing manner and looked tenderly down into the white face pressed against his wet coat.
The sound of wheels upon the frozen road came nearer. Lights flashed around a turn in the road, and Tournay staggered to the carriage door as the vehicle drew up suddenly.
"Hurrah!" cried Gaillard from the box, where he had taken the reins from the driver. "We have won!"