“God bless you!” said Roland, with tears in his eyes. Then he was in the street, and a moment or two later, riding like mad back along the road to Finistère.
For some miles he galloped on almost without thought, he was so numb with misery and incredulity. Zéphyr, the incomparable, seemed quite fresh, despite the distance he had come since yesterday morning. That was why he had taken him. . . . A rescue—how was it to be brought about? It all seemed to rest on his shoulders. A terrible feeling of helplessness began to wrap him round as he pushed on through the cold rain which was now beating on him. Was he really acting for the best in returning like this, and what was to be done when he got back—the men all disbanded? If only the Abbé were there! And how should he ever tell the Duchesse? The clouds about him seemed thick with the shame and anguish in his heart. And Zéphyr was not so fresh after all.
What did they mean to do with the Duc? Hold him as a hostage? They dared do nothing worse, in the face of that full safe-conduct. Even the First Consul would not dare. It was a mistake; yes, a piece of bravado. Yet if only they had listened to M. de Brencourt!
He had covered many miles without drawing rein. The night was beginning, the early February night. And Zéphyr, the tireless and surefooted, had stumbled twice. “O Zéphyr, don’t you fail too, as we have failed!” cried his rider.
Over the border at last into Finistère, and through Quimperlé, where they had slept yesterday. It was dark now, and snowing a little. He meant to ride all night, but at Bannalec it was plain that it was an impossibility both for him and his gallant horse. He tried to get another; could not, and fell asleep from exhaustion even as he argued about it with the people of the inn. They carried him up and put him to bed. He had covered not quite half of the distance back.
It was afternoon of the next day when at last he got to La Vergne, and he could hardly get out of the saddle, hardly drag himself up the steps. No sentry now. He lifted the great knocker; the door swung open. Someone had heard the hoofs. It was Marthe. She caught at him as he stumbled into the hall. “Roland, what is it? O, what has happened?”
“Bad news,” said he, so weary he could scarcely frame the words. “The Duc——” A cold mist suddenly drove at him across the hall; when it cleared he saw Mme de la Vergne hurrying towards him, and that Marthe had her arms round him, half supporting him. And who was the man rising from a chair by the hearth? But he saw also the Duchesse de Trélan, who must have been coming down the great staircase, standing as if turned to marble in her descent, a few feet from the bottom. . . . And he broke away from Marthe, for he knew he must tell her at once.
“Madame, they have arrested the Duc at Hennebont—they have taken him to Vannes . . . it was true about the safe-conduct . . . the others are hurt—killed, perhaps . . .” And sobbing out, “How can we save him?” clutching at her dress, he sank forward exhausted on the stairs, his head against her very feet.