So it was toward Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois directed their steps.
But their progress was very slow, for they were obliged to avoid frequented roads, and renounce the ordinary modes of transportation.
The fatigue of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her. After five or six days the color came back to her cheek and her strength returned.
“Fate seems to have relaxed her rigor,” said Maurice, one day. “Who knows what compensations the future may have in store for us!”
No, fate had not taken pity upon them; it was only a short respite granted by destiny. One lovely April morning the fugitives stopped for breakfast at an inn on the outskirts of a large city.
Maurice having finished his repast was just leaving the table to settle with the hostess, when a despairing cry arrested him.
Marie-Anne, deadly pale, and with eyes staring wildly at a paper which she held in her hand, exclaimed in frenzied tones:
“Here! Maurice! Look!”
It was a French journal about a fortnight old, which had probably been left there by some traveller.
Maurice seized it and read: