‘Not yet,’ answered Exili quickly. ‘A woman—rich, high-born, and beautiful. It is the Marchioness of Brinvilliers!’
And before Philippe could stop him, he rushed forward and threw open the covering of the cart, discovering Marie still crouching in the corner of the vehicle.
‘I have you, then, at last,’ he cried, in a voice choking with rage, as he recognised her. ‘Descend!—fiend! demon! murderess of my son! Descend! for you are mine—mine!’
He was about to climb up the vehicle, when Marie, to whom part of the speech was entirely incomprehensible, shrank to the other side of the tumbrel, and called upon Philippe to defend her. But this was not needed. The young student had clutched the physician by the neck, and pulled him back on to the ground.
‘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!’