‘Surely,’ replied Lachaussée; ‘a haughty minx enough. She left a day or two back, displeased with my attention; at least, she said so. I know not where she is gone.’
A spasm crossed the features of Sainte-Croix during this speech of the superintendent, as he eyed him with an expression of contempt, amounting to disgust: but this passed, and he continued—
‘I can tell you: she is staying at the boat-mill below the Pont Notre Dame. You must go to-morrow and ascertain if she is still there. In the event of finding her, contrive so that she may be under your control; place her in some situation where she can never see me, or follow me, again. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly,’ returned Lachaussée; ‘though mine would not be the advice she would the soonest follow.’
And then he added, as he regarded Sainte-Croix with a piercing look—
‘You have sent Exili to the Bastille. He might have aided us.’
‘No more!’ cried Sainte-Croix, as he perceived the meaning of the other. ‘No more! I must be freed from her annoyance. Other prospects are opening to me, which her presence would cloud and destroy—but remember, you will be held answerable for the slightest injury that may affect her. If you want money, you have only to apply to me for it; but, by Heaven! if every sou of what you draw is not appropriated to her sole use, your life shall answer for it. Am I understood?’
‘You may count upon me,’ answered Lachaussée. ‘She shall never trouble you more. I believe the girl is entirely destitute. Perhaps she may look upon me with more favour when she finds how utterly dependent she will be upon my liberality.’
‘I shall not return to the Rue des Bernardins to-night,’ said Sainte-Croix. ‘You must accommodate me here, and to-morrow we will leave together on our separate missions.’
There was a small apartment opening from the chamber wherein this conversation had taken place, to which Lachaussée conducted his companion. In the corner was a truckle bed, without furniture. Gaudin threw his cloak upon it; and ordering the other to bring in the embers from the fire-place, and place them upon the hearth, closed the door as the task was finished, and prepared to retire to rest. He merely took off his upper garments, and then lay carelessly down upon the rude couch, placing his sword and pistols within his grasp upon a chair by the side. He heard the steps of Lachaussée retiring, and then all was still as the grave. The cold air of the room rushed up the chimney and fanned the braise into a light flame, which threw the mouldings of the room in flitting and grotesque shadows upon the walls and ceiling. As slumber came upon him, these assumed regular forms in his fevered imagination. He fancied Exili and Lachaussée appeared, and were dragging him down into a gulf, when Louise Gauthier stretched out her arm, and they could not pass her; and then another female, almost equally young and beautiful, with a countenance that was ever before him, sleeping and waking, in the rich apparel of a grand lady, drew him away from the rest, and told him to escape with her. He attempted to fly, but his feet were riveted to the ground, and the others were already in pursuit. They came nearer and nearer, and were about to lay hands on him once more, when in his agony he awoke, and starting up on the bed glared wildly about the room. By the light of the declining embers he perceived some one moving in the chamber, and in the alarmed voice of a person suddenly aroused from a frightful dream he challenged the intruder.