They had scarcely departed, when, as she was about to turn on her way to the Bosquet de Bal by one of the cross avenues, a voice that thrilled her called, in a low tone, ‘Marie!’
A man advanced from the trees, and she directly saw that it was Sainte-Croix! His face looked ghastly in the moonbeams,
The Duel
and his eyes gleamed with a light that conscience made demoniac in the eyes of the Marchioness.
‘You here!’ she exclaimed.
‘Where should I be but in the place of rejoicing just now?’ replied Gaudin through his set teeth, and with a sardonic smile. ‘I am this moment from Paris. We are free!’
‘My father?’ cried the Marchioness, as a terrible expression overspread her countenance.
‘He is dead,’ returned Sainte-Croix; ‘and—we are free!’
There was a pause, and they looked at each other for nearly a minute.