OFFEMONT TO LIÉGE--AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE--THE SANCTUARY
Within an hour of leaving the _poste_ at Compiègne the Marchioness
had traversed a portion of the Forêt de l’Aigue and arrived at
Offemont, at her château. Here no longer any difficulty existed in
procuring the means of proceeding onward. The horses in the stable
were fresh, and prepared for hard work; the servants were attached to
her, from her having resided so much with them, up to the death of M.
d’Aubray; and a change of dress, from her hurried costume to more
suitable habiliments for the journey, somewhat refreshed her.
Still she was aware no time was to be lost; and knowing well--better
than even Desgrais himself--the imminent peril she would be in if
taken, she directly ordered her own carriage to be got ready, her
determination being to reach the frontier of the Netherlands at the
nearest point. Her anxiety created some little astonishment amongst
the people; but they had only to obey, and a very little time elapsed
before the carriage was in the court, and all prepared for the fresh
start.
It was a fine winter’s morning. The sun was sparkling on the frozen
snow, and the nostrils of the horses steamed in the sharp, bracing
air, which called a flush on Marie’s cheek and rendered her appearance
less haggard, by the temporary glow, than the terrible adventures of
the night had made it. And now that she was entirely dependent upon
her own energy for safety, her firmness rose with the danger. The
first shock passed, all her wondrous determination came back to her
assistance. In her utter, fearful heartlessness, she was almost
beginning to look already upon the death of Gaudin as an accident by
which some clog had been removed, and she had been left free and
unfettered to follow her own will, as soon as her safety from her
pursuers was secured.
A large package, apparently of clothes, was put in the carriage with
her, and then the word was given to proceed at once to Laon--a large
town some four and twenty miles off--with such speed as the horses
could make in the snow. Here she arrived towards the afternoon, and
then with fresh horses went on towards Vervins, changing at the little
village of Marle, and taking some slight refreshment. It will be
unnecessary for us to follow the Marchioness with minuteness
throughout her route; for nothing beyond the ordinary adventures of
the road occurred until she reached the frontier. Paying well at every
_poste_, the horses were urged, in spite of all disadvantages, far
beyond the common rate of travelling, and her hopes increased with
every hour that Desgrais had been put off the scent. Reaching Vervins
in the night, she went on to Rocroi, through Maubert, arriving at the
former place some twenty hours after her departure from Offemont. Here
she rested some little time, having need of refreshment beyond the few
things she had, with some forethought, brought with her. At Fumay
another delay was occasioned by the lack of horses; but this temporary
hindrance was less annoying; for, since the previous evening, the
frost had set in with such unparalleled severity that, with every
contrivance, the cold had become intense, even causing her to suffer
acute pain. But at night she was enabled again to be on the road, and
reached Givet, the frontier town on the French side of the river
Meuse, early in the evening.
Although not above five o’clock, the streets of this picturesque place
were almost deserted in consequence of the cold, and the people at the
inn were astonished to see a solitary female alight from the carriage,
which now bore evidences of having come a long journey. But they
carried the few effects that Marie had with her into the common room
of the inn, and then heaped up the fire and bustled about to serve
her, impressed with some respect by the liberality with which she paid
the _postes_, and the report carried on from one town to another that
such had been the case throughout the journey. Here all danger she
imagined was over. The Meuse only separated her from another country,
and to cross this was the work of half a minute. Hence she determined
upon remaining at Givet for the night; for, with all her energy, her
animal powers were now well-nigh exhausted by reason of want of rest.
She was alone in the large and cheerless public room of the ‘Ane
Doré’--the hotel to which the postilions had brought her whilst the
servants got another chamber warmed and ready to receive her. The
hurry and confusion of the last two days and nights had left her but
little time for reflection; but, now that the great risk was
comparatively lessened, reaction took place, and a bitter depression
stole over her feelings--crushing and desolate. All the terrible
circumstances which had so lately occurred came back to her mind with
fearful distinctness; the very shadows that danced upon the walls and
ceiling appeared endowed with ghastly forms, that flickered and
gibbered about her with an air of triumph. She could not close her
eyes and shut them out; for the mere notion that they were then still
mocking her was more insupportable than absolutely fixing her open
eyes upon them. Anon the warmth of the fire, coming after the biting
cold of the open air, induced drowsiness, and in a half-sleeping,
half-waking state, these fitful shadows changed from the indistinct
shapes into which her imagination had transformed them to palpable and
horrid objects. A crowd of pale and sheeted spectres, with wasted
limbs and distorted faces, as though they had died after
long-protracted agony, swept slowly before her, bearing the semblances
of those who, by her hellish agency, had filled the Salle des Cadavres
of the Hôtel Dieu. Her father, too, was there--vivid and lifelike, as
he had seemed to her on that fatal evening at Offemont, when the first
step of her diabolical career had been taken. Her brothers rose up as
well, and denounced her as they moved their blackened lips, and
lastly, she saw the form of Gaudin de Sainte-Croix advancing through
the immaterial and hideous groups that surrounded him. He came towards
her, and, although the stamp of death was on his features, she felt
his breath hot and stifling on her cheek as he advanced. She tried to
move away, but some hideous sensation riveted her to the spot. He came
still nearer, and stretched forth his hand to seize her, when with a
cry of terror she awoke, and found herself still alone in the chamber;
whilst a violent ringing of the bell in the court-yard recalled her at
once to her senses.
She directly rushed to the window, her imagination picturing nothing
less than the arrival of Desgrais. But to her relief she saw nothing
beyond a small country vehicle, drawn by one horse, from which a man,
apparently young, leapt down, and directed the fellow in attendance to
take charge of it. He then entered the court, and immediately
afterwards Marie heard him coming towards the room in which she was.
She had barely time to throw a scarf over her head, and draw it
together, so as in a measure to conceal her features, when the
new-comer entered.
He started back for a moment as he perceived the room was occupied,
and then, with some commonplace salutation, to which Marie only
replied with a bow, advanced towards the fireplace. The Marchioness
perceived that he was scrutinising her with sidelong glances, and
again became somewhat alarmed; when the stranger divested himself of a
travelling-cloak, and threw it on the table, previously to kicking the
embers on the hearth carelessly together with his foot. As he did this
the fire burnt up, and Marie caught a glimpse of his face. A subdued
cry of surprise burst from her lips as she thought she recognised him,
and she then exclaimed, half interrogating, half addressing him--
‘Camille Theria!’
‘The same,’ returned Theria, for it was he. ‘The same; and at your
service, madame, mademoiselle, or _ma belle_--whichever title you
choose to appropriate to yourself.’
‘Have you forgotten me?’ she asked, as she threw back the scarf and
showed her face.
‘Marie!’ exclaimed Camille, as he started at the revelation. And he
added almost directly, but in an altered tone, as though he would have
been better pleased had his companion been any one else, ‘_Mon Dieu!_
how came you here, for us to meet thus?’
‘You are annoyed, then, at meeting me,’ replied Marie; for her keen
perception detected the difference of his expression. And, as she
assumed a tearful and appealing look, she added, ‘I am used to this,
Camille, and ought to have expected it. The time was when I should
have been too proud to have even replied to you; but persecution and
misery have crushed my spirit. My heart is quite--quite broken.’
She bowed down her head, and covered her face with her hands. She
meant Camille to believe that she was weeping. He did so, and was
touched at her distress. Taking one of her hands in his own, he said
in kinder accents--
‘I was surprised at this sudden rencontre, Marie. I know not why, but
I did not expect that we should ever meet again. It certainly was not
my wish, although you will not give me credit for the cause.’
‘And what is that?’
‘I will tell you. You know I left Paris for Liége, my native place,
some time ago. I have since then followed my profession there, and am
about to be married. My intended lives at Mezières, whence I am now
returning from a visit.’
‘And you ought to forget me,’ replied Marie: ‘it is right to do so.’
Then she added, ‘Do you remember the last evening we met, Camille?’
‘It would be difficult to forget it. I have the scar here on my arm
from Monsieur de Sainte-Croix’s sword. Where is he--at Paris still?’
‘I know not,’ answered the Marchioness, with a violent effort to
conceal her emotion; ‘it is long since we have met.’
‘He may be alive or dead, for aught I could say to the contrary,’ said
Theria. ‘I never hear from Paris now.’
‘He knows nothing then,’ thought the Marchioness.
‘But how is it I find you here?’ continued Theria; ‘so far from home,
and alone?’
‘Alas! Camille, it is a sad story, and some day you shall know
everything. I have been compelled to fly from Paris--from my
creditors--to avoid a prison. The separation from my husband and
children drove me to seek any excitement that would drown my
wretchedness. I played deeply, and I am ruined.’
‘Are you pursued?’
‘I believe the authorities are close upon my track. I only left Paris
the evening before last. Your old friend Philippe Glazer came with me
to Offemont, and from that place I have travelled alone.’
‘I think you might have chosen a better resting-place,’ said Theria.
‘This is the principal hotel, and the first to which the police would
come. I shall wait here until my horse is rested, and then push on
to-night, if possible, to Dinant; for I must be at Liége to-morrow.
Will you accompany me?’
‘Again upon the road!’ murmured his companion in accents of despair.
‘My strength has nearly deserted me!’
‘It will be safer for you, if things are as you state,’ replied
Camille. ‘You will have passed the frontier, and be three leagues
nearer the termination of your journey. We will sup together if you
please, Marie, and talk it over; I shall not start for an hour yet.
Mass! how the wind is shrieking along the market-place!’
‘I will go with you,’ said Marie, after a little deliberation. ‘I
could not bear to be left here now, wretched and utterly deserted as I
am. The sight of you has recalled so many old feelings, that----’
‘Understand me, Marie,’ interrupted Camille, ‘the past must be never
again alluded to between us. I have told you my position, and if we
meet, it can only be as friends.’
‘It shall be as you wish, Camille,’ replied the Marchioness with a
sigh. ‘I will not give you cause for the lightest rebuke.’
Some of the people of the inn appeared at that moment, and at
Camille’s orders laid out a table for supper. When they left the room
he said--
‘Have you no other dress? In my quiet vehicle your rich costume would
at least excite curiosity; and the more unobserved we are the safer.’
‘I have provided against any suspicion,’ said Marie; and taking up the
bundle she had brought with her, she left the room, returning within
five minutes attired as a _paysanne_ of the Forêt de l’Aigue. Her
hair, which she usually wore in showering ringlets about her neck and
shoulders, was knotted and disordered by her journey, and she stood
before a large mirror in the room, to put it up beneath a small
country cap, first letting fall its entire flowing length, with a
coquetry that was intended to produce its effect upon Theria. But
Camille’s affections were fixed at present rather on a _brioche_ that
adorned the table, and the effect was lost.
Whilst thus occupied, an unusual stir was heard in the street below
the inn. Marie, alive to every sound, again rushed to the window, and
to her dismay perceived that her worst fears were realised. A mounted
escort of guards had surrounded a carriage, in which, by the lights
they carried, she could plainly recognise Desgrais, and two other
exempts. He had closely followed her, making up for the time lost in
the wild-goose chase towards Beauvais by double speed as soon as he
found himself on the right track; and, as Camille had imagined, came
first to the principal hotel.
‘I am lost!’ she exclaimed, as she retreated from the window. ‘They
have traced me!’
‘Not yet,’ said Camille, jumping up. ‘But you must be off directly.
Where is your passport?’
A cry of terror broke from Marie’s lips at the question. She had left
home without one, forgetting that it would be demanded at the
frontier.
‘Never mind,’ cried Theria; ‘this way. We can get into the court
before they enter by this staircase, and thence to some of the back
streets. You must run every risk, if you wish to escape; though I
should imagine, for a matter of debt, they would not be very hard upon
you. Come--come!’
Little persuasion was needed to induce Marie to accompany her new
guide. They flew down the small flight of stairs indicated by Theria,
and were quickly in the street in the rear of the hotel, whence a few
turns conducted them to the river side, where the Meuse was chafing
amidst the huge blocks of ice which had floated down its stream, and
were gathering into one solid mass.
‘If you could but cross the river,’ he said, ‘we should be safe. But a
boat could not make its way amidst the ice. We will try it, however,
if you choose.’
‘I am ready,’ said Marie. ‘The chance is a desperate one either way.’
‘We must not be particular about what craft we take,’ said Theria, ‘so
long as it remains undiscovered. Here is one I think will do.’
A small boat had been hauled on to the bank, which Theria directly
launched through the brittle ice close to the shore; and then,
assisting Marie to enter it, he got in himself, and pushed off with
one of the stretchers. So rapidly had everything taken place, that
before the Marchioness well understood what they were about, she found
herself with Theria half across the river.
It was not very dark. One or two lights were gleaming and struggling
with the wind along the edge of the river; and the frosty brightness
of the stars was sufficient to enable them to discern surrounding
objects. The huge blocks of ice kept floating about them, at times
turning their boat completely round, and at last a conglomeration of
these masses hemmed them in, threatening entirely to arrest their
farther progress. Theria made a few strenuous efforts to set the boat
free, but in vain. Another and another block joined the body, until
the entire mass, wedging itself in with some fixed groups that
extended a third of the way across the river, became altogether
immovable.
‘_Pheuh!_’ said Theria, as, after a few laborious attempts to get the
boat out, he threw down his piece of board, and saw the futility of
his work. ‘What can we do now? We are fairly trapped.’
‘It is all over!’ exclaimed Marie, as she gazed at the gloomy masses,
about which the cold feathery spray of the river was dashing, terrible
to look at in the obscurity. ‘We shall be kept here until daylight,
and then be captured.’
‘If we are, I shall be mistaken,’ said Theria. ‘The ice ought to make
a bridge, although a slippery one.’
He tried to gain a footing upon one or two of the blocks; but they
turned round as he touched them. At last he found one larger and
firmer than the rest--a conglomerate of several pieces, forming a
perfect iceberg--and this was frozen to some others that had been
arrested in their progress by one or two piles just under water. It
was extremely hazardous; but their only chance was to endeavour to
reach the bank by this treacherous passage. Theria stepped carefully
from the boat on to the block, which, somewhat depressed in the
middle, offered a safer platform to stand upon than those of a more
irregular shape. Then, assured of its stability, he gave his hand to
the Marchioness, and bidding her to trust herself entirely to his
guidance, assisted her on to the ice, moving with extreme caution, and
sideways towards the bank. The least slip of the foot or overbalance
of weight would at once have been fatal to both; but, fortunately, the
severity of the frost had so bound the masses to each other, that in
little more than a minute their perilous journey was accomplished, and
they stood on the firm land on the other side of the river. The cold
had kept all within doors, so that they were not observed by any
passers by, and the darkness hid them from the view of the sentinels
on the adjacent fortifications.
Camille directly led Marie to a small cabaret on the quay, and told
her to await his return, whilst he went back to the hotel by the
bridge--having his passport _en règle_, and being, moreover, slightly
known to the authorities. His absence had scarcely been noticed at the
‘Ane Doré’ in the confusion, although they were eagerly seeking the
Marchioness; so he ordered out his horse and little conveyance, and
drove over the bridge to the spot where he had left Marie. Here she
joined him, and they then set off together to Dinant, the first town
in Belgium on crossing the frontier, where they arrived in two hours.
Now Marie determined at all hazards to stop. She had meant to do so at
Givet, had it been practicable, for her strength would hold out no
longer; indeed, for the last ten miles of her journey, she had been in
a complete state of stupefaction from want of rest, after the trials
she had undergone. Theria went to another house to avoid any
suspicion, recommending her to post onward in the morning, so as to
reach Liége before Desgrais could get any order for her ‘extradition’
from the Conseil des Soixante in that city. The chances were in favour
of her security; for no one had seen her leave Givet, nor would the
passport books afford any information as to her route.
Meantime Desgrais had learned sufficient at the ‘Ane Doré’ to
convince him that the Marchioness had been there; and the discovery of
the garments she had left at the hotel at once decided him. But she
had again slipped through his hands, and this time without leaving a
trace of her journey behind her. He immediately sent his archers round
to the commissaries of police and the barriers; but no passport had
been seen that night, nor were the guards aware that any one had
crossed the bridge since dark, except Theria, whom they mentioned. But
he knew that the Marchioness had the passage of the frontier for her
object, and that Liége, as the nearest place of importance, would in
all probability be the end of her journey; and consequently, leaving a
portion of his men at Givet, with orders to make the strictest
investigation at all the hotels and small inns in the neighbourhood,
he went on the same night to Dinant, actually sleeping in that town
within two hundred yards of his object.
Marie was up as soon as there was daylight enough to proceed on her
journey. Twenty leagues were now all that remained between her and
Liége, and these she meant to traverse before night. The rest of some
hours had refreshed her, bodily and mentally, and she was once more
ready to encounter any difficulties her further progress might bring
forth. The exempt never heard of the departure (which he immediately
knew to be that of the Marchioness), until three or four hours after
she had left Dinant; and then, still at a loss to account for the
manner in which she had contrived to elude the police authorities at
Givet, he ordered out a carriage and horses, and started after her
with all the speed his money and authority could command, leaving his
archers behind--with the exception of two who accompanied him--with
orders to follow him as hastily as their means would permit.
Empanne, Havelange, Nandrin--all were passed without any circumstance
occurring to obstruct Marie’s flight; and the gloom of the winter’s
night was closing fast about her as the carriage came within the last
mile of Liége. It was here, as she looked behind her through the
small window at the back of the vehicle, to see if there were any
signs of pursuit on the road--which had been her sole occupation
during the day--that she first perceived two gleaming lights in the
distance, evidently following her. She urged on the postilions, and a
turn of the road hid them from her view. Then they were again visible,
and apparently nearer; directly the brow of the hill, as she descended
once more, shut them out, and the next minute she saw them gaining
upon her during every interval of perfect darkness. Swiftly as she was
flying along the road, it was evident that the other party was more
than a match for her _attelage_ in speed; and perceiving from this
that every effort was being made to come up with her, she concluded
that it was Desgrais.
Lashed and goaded to madness, her horses flew on like the wind, as
from the front of the carriage she promised an additional reward every
instant to their riders if they brought her to Liége before the other
traveller. But Desgrais--for it was he--was equally on the alert. On
the first intimation that a carriage was in sight on the road before
them, he had left the interior, and, clinging to the front of the
_voiture_, was urging his own people on as earnestly as the
Marchioness, until the uproar of cries and cracking whips was plainly
audible to the terrified inmate of the first vehicle. Tearing uphill,
until the breathless horses almost fell from being overtasked--anon
racing down, with a precipitancy that threatened annihilation every
instant--and then flying along the level road, so close together, that
the steam from the animals in the carriage of the Marchioness was
still visible in the gleam of the lamps belonging to Desgrais--did the
chase continue.
At last they entered Liége, and the pursuit now became doubly
exciting from the cries of the postilions as they traversed the
glooming streets at a fearful pace, cracking their whips as they
whirled them above their heads, and shouting in an unearthly manner to
warn the passengers of their advent. A _charette_ in the road offered
a temporary check to Marie’s carriage, and Desgrais the next instant
was close up to her. But nearer he could not come; for the width of
the thoroughfare would not allow the two vehicles to go abreast. They
were, however, coming to a broader street, and then Marie knew he
would pass her. To avoid this, and gain a minute of time--for every
second now was worth the price of her life--she collected some straw
from the interior of her coach, and tied it into a bundle with her
handkerchief; then lighting it at the lamp of the carriage, she leaned
out of the window, and threw it, blazing, directly in front of the
leaders of the other _voiture_. The horse on which the postilion was
riding reared up in fright, and directly threw him; his fellow backed
as well, and the wheelers coming over them, they were all thrown
together in a terrible confusion before the carriage, which by its own
impetus came partly on them. In an instant Desgrais leaped upon his
feet--for the shock had also thrown him upon the ground--and clearing
the rider from the stirrups, he cut the traces with his poniard, and
getting the horse upon his legs, vaulted into the saddle, leaving the
rest of his equipage to the care of the archers who were inside. The
carriage of the Marchioness was not fifty yards ahead, as it turned
towards the convent she had indicated to the drivers. Once more
everything depended on a few seconds, and Desgrais goaded the poor
animal with the point of his weapon to spur it onwards, as the horses
of his intended prisoner, equally urged, kept tearing on towards the
goal. At last they stopped at the door of the convent, and as its
heavy bell sounded with a loud and violent peal, the exempt came up to
the carriage.
He sprang from his horse, and tore down, rather than opened, the door
nearest the road, and seized the Marchioness by her mantle. At that
instant the gate of the convent opened, as she jumped from the
carriage and entered the lodge, leaving the garment in the hand of the
exempt. Desgrais rushed through the vehicle, and was about to follow
her, when she seized a cross from the porch, and held it towards him
with a smile of triumph, that threw an expression of demonaic beauty
over her features.
‘You dare not touch me!’ she cried; ‘or you are lost, body and soul!’
With an oath, Desgrais fell back before the sacred emblem. Marie had
thrown herself upon the Church, and claimed a sanctuary. An impassable
barrier was between them, and the whole of his toil to arrest her had
gone for nothing. The chance had been lost, in a pursuit of nearly one
hundred leagues, by half a minute.