CHAPTER XXXII.

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.