She tripped away from him, and he turned round to watch her until she disappeared into the house. A deep sigh escaped him. For the last ten years—the best of his life and hers—he had been her husband in little more than name; no sooner had he returned from one mission, than he had been despatched upon another. Now he came to think of it, he had been the mere instrument of her revenge, a tool in her hands, a sort of confidential servant; and, even so, not wholly trusted. The position irked him terribly, and, for the first time in his life, a something, that he hardly durst acknowledge as regret, stole over him, that they had ever met.
"I wonder what would have happened," he said half aloud, "if I had never left Napoleon."
He sighed again, then began slowly moving to the house.
A noise of shouting in the distance made him check his steps. He listened; the sound came nearer, and still nearer. Then, besides the shouting, he could distinguish the clattering of horses' hoofs and the pattering of running feet. Plainly, men mounted and on foot were hurrying along the high road in chase of somebody or something. And now a cry fell on his ear, that took him back to the bygone days—to France.
"A moi, mes amis; à moi, au secours!"
Without a moment's hesitation, St. Just dashed down the carriage way in the direction of the sounds. When he reached the gates, he saw an emaciated figure, panting and exhausted, running down the road; and, about a hundred yards behind the fugitive, some dragoons, with an officer at their head. The officer was waving his sword and shouting, "Stop him, stop him, in the king's name. He is a French prisoner escaped from Lewes." Some laborers in the neighborhood were following the dragoons. Other villagers hearing the noise, came up from the opposite direction with lanterns, to see what it was about.
Thus hemmed in, the hunted creature had no chance of escape. Seeing this, he would have given up the attempt and quietly submitted to re-capture; when St. Just, knowing, or rather guessing, that those who were pursuing him knew no French, shouted to him, "A moi, pour France."
The fugitive dashed on, and fell palpitating at St. Just's feet.
"The very man I sought," he gasped. "Take it." And St. Just felt a small, but weighty, parcel thrust into his hands, under cover of the darkness. To save the man from capture was impossible, for the soldiers were close upon him; and St. Just had only time to conceal the packet, when the commander of the dragoons rode up, a few yards in advance of his men. The fugitive had scrambled to his feet.
"Caught, you French rascal," exclaimed the officer, striking at him with the flat of his sword. The man bent to dodge the blow, and then, before anyone could divine his purpose, he made a dash at the holster before the saddle, and seized one of the officer's pistols. In an instant he had fired.