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.