They passed out upon the top of the staircase, and then as soon as the curtain had fallen back over the doorway, Marie told Louise to keep close to her, as she descended rapidly into the court-yard. They passed out at the porte-cochère unnoticed; and, finding a carriage at the corner of the Rue St. Jacques, the Marchioness made Louise enter, and, following herself, gave the word to the coachman to drive to her house in the Rue St. Paul.
CHAPTER XXV.
MARIE HAS LOUISE IN HER POWER—THE LAST CAROUSAL
Not a word was exchanged between Marie and Louise Gauthier during their journey from the Hôtel de Cluny to the Rue St. Paul. Once only was the silence broken, when the Marchioness desired the driver, with some impatience, to urge his horses onward with something more of speed than the leisure progression which then, as now, was the chief attribute of the voitures de remise of the good city of Paris. During this period she never removed the mask from her face, and Louise was not particularly anxious to know the station of her new acquaintance. It was sufficient cause for congratulating herself to find that she was away from the trysting-place of Lauzun’s debauched companions, and once more breathing the pure air of the streets, instead of the tainted atmosphere of the hôtel.
The Pont de la Tournelle was at that period the highest up the river, with respect to the stream, for crossing to the other side; now, the bridges of Austerlitz, Constantine, and Bercy span the Seine beyond this, which still exists. The carriage lumbered across the Ile St. Louis, and, traversing the other arm of the river by the Pont Marie, passed along the quay, until it stopped at the Hôtel d’Aubray in the Rue St. Paul.
As they stopped at the porte-cochère, the Marchioness looked out, and perceived to her dismay that it was open, and that the windows which opened into the court were lighted up, whilst forms could be seen passing and repassing, showing that there was a large company assembled within.
The vehicle had scarcely arrived at the foot of the staircase when Marie’s own maid, Françoise Roussel, appeared at the entrance. The light of the carriage-lamp fell upon her face, which was ghastly pale, and, to all appearance, distorted with pain. She was breathing in agony, and could not speak for some seconds after she had opened the door.
‘Heaven be praised that you are returned, madame!’ at length she said. ‘Your brothers have come back from Offemont this evening, with a party of gentlemen living near the chateau. Monsieur François inquired after you; but I told him you had retired.’
‘Something ails you, Françoise,’ observed the Marchioness. ‘Are you ill?’
‘I have been in agony, madame, the whole afternoon, as if I had swallowed some pins that were red-hot.’
‘You have taken something that has done you harm,’ continued Marie, as she descended from the carriage. ‘What have you eaten to-day?’