The victim lay panting on her pillows. The executioner remarked with a low bow, "We will leave you to make your peace with Heaven," and was preparing to withdraw when the marquise gasped out, "In Heaven's name, do not destroy my soul. Send for a confessor that I may die as a Christian should."
"You forgot I am a priest," returned the abbé, smiling, "and now, as ever, at your service."
Perceiving that she did not appreciate his merry conceit, for she covered her face with shuddering hands, he motioned to his brother to follow, and bade Algaé remain with the victim.
"There will be much to see to," he observed, "for those who unfortunately perish of malignant fevers, must be speedily put away. Within an hour there will be delirium and giddiness, followed by coma and death. Keep the patient quiet, and make her comfortable. We will leave for Blois at midday, and meet the marquis on the road." With this he playfully executed another deep reverence, and dragging the chevalier after him, left the room.
Mademoiselle Brunelle was enchanted that matters should at last have been brought to a satisfactory pass with becoming decorum. No ungenteel screaming, no bloodshed; only a palatable tisane which tasted a little like celery. In a few hours they would intercept the marquis on his ill-judged return, and when he knew that he was a widower, he would be as anxious as they to leave the neighbourhood. Events that seem untoward are often for the best. His sudden change of plans had driven the conspirators to promptitude. The tortuous and shilly-shally abbé had been compelled to action, and he had really acted very well.
She glanced now and then at the figure on the bed, who lay as motionless as if all were already over, and walked up and down reflecting. What a provoking man the marquis was, who had to be served despite himself. Left alone, unpropped, he had tumbled down, the unstable creature; had repented, and was coming back to whine and to entreat and bite his nails in indecision. Well. No excuse for whining now. The die was cast. In a few days they would have crossed the frontier never to revisit Lorge. The jewels. They must not be left behind, since they were of exceeding value--love gifts from the doting maréchal, who deemed naught too good for his darling. There was a diamond parure somewhere, of purest water, which would become the new marquise amazingly. With greedy hands Algaé dived into drawers, ferreted in the cabinet of ebony, searched the silver knickknacks on the toilet table. Where were the jewels kept? Doubtless, in the garderobe on the opposite side of the corridor. Yes. Here was the bunch of keys labelled. Mademoiselle would be a veritable ninny were she to neglect her chance of reaping all that could be reaped. As the prospective wife of Clovis the jewels were her own or soon would be, and with this plaguy revolution going on, to leave France was to be condemned to exile. The property of emigrés was confiscated. When it became known that the Marquise de Gange was dead, and the marquise flown, the state would pounce upon the chateau, and take possession of everything within it. It clearly behoved the second wife to rummage in the cupboards of the first. There was no time to lose. Casting one hasty glance at the bed, and perceiving no change, Mademoiselle hastily left the room in search of treasure.
With fingers still clasped over her eyes Gabrielle lay still, each minute passage in her melancholy life flitting across her brain. She had distinctly heard the brutal fiat of the abbé. Giddiness, delirium, coma, death. Within an hour the symptoms would commence--to last how long? No sign as yet of giddiness. On the contrary, that cold gust from out the grave appeared to have stimulated her mind, quickening its action, magnifying each thought in crystal clearness. It would soon be over. The release for which she had prayed so long and earnestly was close at hand. Her fretted spirit would find peace--she would be freed from the corroding bonds of harsh humanity. Not five and twenty, and the world was beautiful. Now, that she stood on the threshold, on the point of closing the door which may never be re-opened, Gabrielle found herself filled with a strange longing and regret. She knew not that it was the force of young and healthy life that was bubbling up in protest. Hope would not thus be slain. An overwhelming desire to live arose and possessed her being. An idea that was new and draught with horror flooded her mind, and she sat up panting. Her children! Why had she not thought of it before? A reason for welcoming death had been that they would be the better protected by her flitting. But was it indeed so? Had not her mother deserted her in a grievous plight through selfish cowardice? Alarmed for herself she had fled with a pretence that all was well. A fitting guardian for two children, truly. How clear it was--how dreadfully clear! The conspirators would work upon her fears--obtain possession of Victor and Camille. By securing their fortune she had imperilled their lives, for those who could do her to death with such cold barbarity, would stick at nothing when they found themselves foiled by her precautions. She must not die. No, she must live--for their sakes! To stand between them and the fate they had prepared for her. She sprang from the bed, a prey to violent agitation. There was a singing in her ears--her temples throbbed as though they would crack in sunder. She reeled and clung to the curtain. Her throat was parched with thirst. Were these the first symptoms of the fatal draught? No. It was excess of emotion and anxiety that made her giddy. She would live--live--live--in spite of the executioners, and God would help, for her cause was holy!
She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the handle without--the deep voice of Algaé was shouting in imperious accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage. Gabrielle tore open the casement and got out upon the ledge. Below was a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algaé, black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within, had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was, Algaé could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight, which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and over, and was up again; and Algaé, grinding her teeth, seized one of the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the garden moat.
"Well!" muttered Algaé, with a philosophic headshake, "she is in a trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pass, and the gates are closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbé will be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'"
Meanwhile, refreshed by the air and movement, the frenzied Gabrielle seemed to have wings upon her feet, as she clenched her hands and kept repeating with laboured breath, "I will live--live--live." Her mind was preternaturally clear--she could see with prophetic vision, and grapple with contingencies. She saw the wall and knew she could not pass it; guessed that the gates were guarded; but remembering a certain night, which seemed a century ago, when she had wickedly attempted suicide, she made with all speed for the end of the moat, at the spot where it joined the river. The wherry was there, swinging loosely and idly on its chain. She leapt into the boat and loosed the knotted links, and, accustomed to use the oars, impelled it across the river. By this happy thought she gained precious time, could take a short cut to Montbazon, and might yet be saved; for her pursuers, deprived of the boat, would have to make a circuit of a mile or more in order to reach the bridge. She would be saved--she knew she would be saved--and then there fell on her a cold and sickening fear. Her limbs were trembling. She was growing giddy; her sight was wavering--the sky looked brown and dark. Was she doomed to sink down and perish when escape was all but certain?