PHILIPPE GLAZER THROWS DESGRAIS OFF THE SCENT
With all his energy to overtake the fugitives, the exempt was again
too late, although fate appeared almost to have thrown them into his
hands. There were a train of market-carts coming into Compiègne on
all sides from the suburbs; and Desgrais, after stopping one or two in
authoritative tones, to the temporary astonishment of the owners,
became so confused with their numbers by the time he reached the
Place, where they were all collecting, that he gave up any further
search, and resolved, after a little rest, to proceed to Offemont;
for, as may be imagined after his harassing journey, he was well-nigh
exhausted. The brandy he carried with him gave him a temporary power
of endurance, and he now stood in need of more substantial
nourishment; and feeling sure that the Marchioness would go at once to
her château, not giving him credit for pursuing her so closely, he
still reckoned upon seizing her before noon, and then, with the
assistance of the municipal authorities of the town, taking her back
to Paris.
In the meantime the humble conveyance which had taken up Marie and
Philippe stopped with them at one of the principal inns, at the very
time that the active agent of the Maréchaussée was endeavouring to
discover them in the streets. At Compiègne the Marchioness was well
known. The firing of the wheels of the post-carriage accounted
sufficiently for her arrival in the market-cart; and her worn, jaded
appearance, was attributed to fright at the occurrence. Her character
stood well, no less at Compiègne and the neighbourhood than at Paris,
as an amiable and much-wronged lady; the wild career her husband had
followed since their separation--the embarrassment of her affairs--his
unbridled licentiousness--all offered sufficient excuses for her
attachment to Sainte-Croix; more especially in an age when gallantry
was almost a virtue--at all events, a most venial transgression; and
therefore it is not to be wondered at that the entire household of the
hotel were anxious to do all they could to assist her at present, even
to the point of becoming officious. A fresh carriage and horses to
Offemont was all, however, that the Marchioness required, and these
were immediately got ready.
‘And now, Philippe,’ said Marie, as they awaited the time to start in
one of the rooms of the hotel, ‘I shall no longer require your help.
You had better return to Paris as soon as you well may, and leave the
rest of my destiny in my own hands. Here I am comparatively at home,
and all are ready to assist me.’
‘I would see you as far as your house at Offemont,’ said the student.
‘There is no necessity for your so doing,’ returned Marie. ‘On the
contrary, it may involve you in some little trouble, more especially
if I am overtaken before I am able to clear myself to the satisfaction
of everybody.’
‘But it is only now a few miles to the château,’ said Philippe.
‘And therefore is there the less occasion for you to accompany me,
whichever way the venture turns. If I get there unobserved, your
presence would be entirely superfluous; if I am overtaken, it would
but involve another in this persecution. I have already been the cause
of too much misery.’
The deep-drawn, almost wailing, sigh of utter exhaustion and misery
which followed these words carried with it such an expression of
desolation, that many who had far less faith in her sincerity than
Philippe would have been affected by it. And yet the depth and
calculation of this extraordinary woman prompted everything. She knew
that if Philippe Glazer was found with her, a fresh link would be
added to the chain of circumstances that connected her with
Sainte-Croix’s affairs, and the revelations of the casket; and she was
anxious that this should be annulled. Hitherto she had owed everything
to his escort and invention; but, now that she was amongst her own
people, and enabled to go on by herself, she foresaw that, in the
event of their being overtaken, his presence would be considered
anything but favourable to her position. And yet, through all this,
she was not at the moment entirely devoid of feeling. We have said
that the most schooled and lying natures have their gleams of candour
and sincerity, and in an access of this kind she continued to the
student--
‘You have been very kind to me, Philippe; risking everything to save
me when, I doubt not, before long the whole world will have turned its
back upon me. How can I return this devotion?’
‘No more, madame, I beseech you,’ replied her companion. ‘It would be
a crime indeed not to have assisted you in this extremity, knowing all
as I do.’
‘All!’ half exclaimed the Marchioness, as she bent her eye upon
Philippe’s countenance; but nothing there indicated a meaning of any
import. She continued--
‘Let this cloud but blow over, and you shall not complain of my want
of gratitude. But at present, take this clasp, and keep it as a
souvenir of our journey. And promise me,’ she went on, as she
unclasped a jewel from her dress and placed it in Philippe’s
hand--‘and promise me that, come what may, you will see me again,
under whatever circumstances it may be practicable to do so.’
‘I swear it,’ replied Philippe, as he put the gift in his pocket,
‘even if you were watching my journey to the scaffold!’
Again Marie regarded the student with an intensity, as though she
would have probed his most hidden thoughts. It was not the first time
that he had alluded to the Place de Grêve upon their journey. Still
there was an absence of any apparent intention in the speech; but the
words caused a shiver to run through her frame, and she turned even
paler than before, a slight quivering of her lip, in addition,
betraying her emotion. At this moment the carriage which was to bear
her to Offemont was announced; and pressing Philippe’s hand warmly,
she averted her face, and without another word hurriedly entered the
vehicle. The word was then given to start, the windows were drawn up
to shut out the freezing morning air, and in another minute she was on
the road to Offemont.
Philippe watched the carriage until it turned the street, and then
returned to the _salle à manger_ of the hotel. The intense
excitement, and the hazards he had undergone, now left a reaction of
extreme depression. The beauty of Marie de Brinvilliers, and her
singular fascinations--her rank and acknowledged acquirements--no less
than the romance which her very gallantries had given to her
character, had half-turned the student’s head, and he began to
question himself, as he had done a dozen times before during the
night, when he felt her clinging to him on the horse, whether his
chivalry was not turning into love; and lighting his pipe, he sat over
the hearth ruminating upon her present situation, and the events of
the last few hours, and what a great thing it was for a student to be
in love with a Marchioness; and lastly he determined, in the event of
her being taken, literally to go through fire and water to assist her,
if such were requisite. And then he remembered that when Camille
Theria had left Paris for Liége, he had spoken of some letters he had
received from the Marchioness, which brought about a new train of
thought, until his ideas became altogether confused, and he fell into
a doze at the warm fireside.
He was aroused by the entrance of an individual in the costume of the
Guet Royal, who marched clanking into the room with an important air,
shouting loudly for the hostess. But the landlady was engaged at that
minute; and having restlessly walked up to the window and curled his
mustachios, he returned to the fireplace, and gave a loud, gruff
‘hem!’ which startled Philippe from his reverie.
‘Have you been here long, _mon brave_?’ he asked with a patronising
air, having attracted his attention.
‘About half an hour,’ said Philippe. ‘I came in early to the market.’
‘Then perhaps you can tell me whether any travellers have arrived or
departed within that period.’
Philippe’s first impulse was to answer in the negative; but a sudden
idea struck him that he might turn the reply to good account.
‘A lady left here in a carriage about ten minutes ago,’ he said.
‘_Peste!_’ exclaimed the guard. ‘M. Desgrais, the exempt of the
Maréchaussée, has just arrived at the prefecture, with an order to
arrest a Parisian lady, whom he has followed since last evening and
this must be her. He has sent messengers to every hotel in the town to
stop her. Do you know which road she took?’
‘The end of her journey was Beauvais,’ said Philippe, throwing the
guard completely off the scent; ‘the horses were to go to Bois de
Lihus.’
‘That is sufficient,’ said the other. ‘I am obliged to you.’
And having apparently got all the information he wanted, he returned
to the prefecture, without seeing the landlady, who came to obey his
summons within two minutes after he had left.
‘So,’ thought Philippe, ‘they are got rid of for three leagues and a
half at least. The seven, there and back, will give madame plenty of
time to steal a march upon them, which they will not readily make up.
And now I had better look to myself.’
There was nothing to settle at the inn, so Philippe lounged idly out
of the _salle à manger_ into the street, where the full bustle and
activity of the day’s business was beginning to get into play. On
arriving at the Place, he found many of the market-carts about to
return into the country. Several were going back towards Senlis; but
not caring to travel the same route by which he had arrived at
Compiègne, for many obvious reasons, he made a bargain with the owner
of one of them to carry him to Joulzy, from whence he could easily get
to Soissons, and return to Paris by an entirely different route.