The marquis closed the door on the astonished company. When he reached the portico he was still holding the woman’s wrist, which he clasped convulsively, while Pille-Miche had almost crushed the bones of her arm with his iron fingers, but Marie felt only the burning hand of the young leader.
“You hurt me,” she said.
For all answer he looked at her a moment.
“Have you some base revenge to take—like that woman?” she said. Then, seeing the dead bodies on the heap of straw, she cried out, shuddering: “The faith of a gentleman! ha! ha! ha!” With a frightful laugh she added: “Ha! the glorious day!”
“Yes,” he said, “a day without a morrow.”
He let go her hand and took a long, last look at the beautiful creature he could scarcely even then renounce. Neither of these proud natures yielded. The marquis may have looked for a tear, but the eyes of the girl were dry and scornful. Then he turned quickly, and left the victim to Pille-Miche.
“God will hear me, marquis,” she called. “I will ask Him to give you a glorious day without a morrow.”
Pille-Miche, not a little embarrassed with so rich a prize, dragged her away with some gentleness and a mixture of respect and scorn. The marquis, with a sigh, re-entered the dining-room, his face like that of a dead man whose eyes have not been closed.
Merle’s presence was inexplicable to the silent spectators of this tragedy; they looked at him in astonishment and their eyes questioned each other. Merle saw their amazement, and, true to his native character, he said, with a smile: “Gentlemen, you will scarcely refuse a glass of wine to a man who is about to make his last journey.”
It was just as the company had calmed down under the influence of these words, said with a true French carelessness which pleased the Vendeans, that Montauran returned, his face pale, his eyes fixed.