CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE DISGUISED COUNTESS.
The adroit flattery of Madame Du Berry carried Dame Tillery out of the room, quite unconscious that she had, in fact, been summarily dismissed. The moment she was gone, Zamara entered, bearing a little ebony travelling-desk, which he opened and placed on the table before his mistress.
“Madame,” he said, anxiously, “they are going; before dark, they will be in Paris with the order for that man’s release.”
“But they cannot present it before morning; no man living can gain access to the Bastille after three o’clock. Besides, Zamara, it goes to my heart to disappoint the poor child.”
“If you do not, it will cost you your life,” answered the dwarf.
Du Berry arose and began to walk the floor. It was hard for her to go back into her old, cruel life, just as some dawnings of compassion had made her understand how sweet goodness was. But with this woman existence was everything—she had enjoyed it so much; and with her fine constitution had years and years to enjoy yet. This man had, doubtless, become accustomed to his dungeon; or, if he must die, it would be a relief. If she could only save him without hurting herself, how pleasant it would be to let that poor girl depart with all her warm hopes undisturbed. But, after all, nothing like what the child expected could come to pass. She need not hope to find her father, but an old man, weak, blind, dazed, to whom this world would be a bitter novelty. The strength of manhood never could return to her victim, though a thousand daughters stood ready to lavish tenderness upon him. What was a life like this compared to hers! Even if the canaille did not accomplish her death, it was sure to drive her back to England, a country which was like a prison to her. No, no, she had concluded.
“Zamara.”
The dwarf approached her.
“Bring the dress in which I came back from England.”
“Madame shall be obeyed.”
“Order the groom to have a horse saddled.”
The dwarf bowed.
“Say to that abominable woman that I am weary, and have a headache which nothing but rest and quiet will cure; on no account must any one approach my room.”
“I will guard the door, mistress.”
“That is well. Now bring the dress; it was left in your keeping.”
The dwarf went out almost smiling. He knew that his argument had prevailed over the scruples of the countess, who walked the room in a restless fashion still, but with stern and settled determination in her face.
Directly Zamara came back, carrying a heavy bundle in his arms.
“Shall I prepare to attend, madame?” he questioned, anxiously.
“No; the people would recognize you on horseback, and I must ride with speed. Follow the directions I have given, and keep guard at the door; be vigilant and cautious.”
“Does madame find it necessary to say that to Zamara?”
“Perhaps not: but there is danger here—great danger; a word, a look, might betray me. You have examined the house, and know all its entrances?”
“All; there is a back door leading to the stables. No matter how fast it may be locked, you will find it ajar at any hour between this and to-morrow morning.”
“Always on the alert! always anticipating my orders!” said the countess, patting him on the head. “At least, I have one faithful friend left.”
Zamara lifted his dark eyes to the face she bent over him—they were full of tears.
“There, there! we must not be children,” she said, giving the little figure a gentle push. “Go and order the horse to be saddled.”
The dwarf disappeared, and instantly the door was bolted after him. When he came back, announcing himself with a respectful knock, a person, undersized, and with the air of one who had at some period of his life been a lady’s page, stood upon the threshold so disguised, that Zamara scarcely recognized his mistress.
“Is the passage clear? Will no one see me go out?”
“Everything is clear.”
Zamara glided away as he spoke, and the page followed. Through a back door, only used by servants, across a yard strewn with worn-out vehicles, empty boxes, broken bottles, and refuse lumber, he led the way into the stables, where a horse stood caparisoned for the road.
The page lifted himself to the saddle, and bending down, whispered,
“No sleep; watch and listen till I come back.”
Zamara smiled till all his white teeth shone again; then laying a tiny hand on his bosom, he bent low muttering,
“Did Zamara ever sleep when his mistress was absent?”
These words were lost in the clatter of hoofs, as horse and rider passed out of the stable. There was nothing about this page to draw particular attention; he might have belonged to any nobleman at this time in Versailles, and thus have passed unquestioned. A few turned to look at him as his horse trotted leisurely through the town, wondering to whom he belonged; but no one became really interested, and he passed away into the country unmolested.
Some three or four miles along the road to Paris, the page saw two persons on horseback just before him—a man and a woman, who seemed to be urging their unwilling steeds to unusual exertion.
The page touched his beast with the spur, and in a few minutes brought himself on a level with the travelers.
Marguerite, when she saw a stranger so near, drew the hood of dark silk over her face, and made a fresh effort to urge her horse forward. Monsieur Jacques turned in his saddle, looked keenly at the new comer, and once more gave his attention to the road.
“Rough roads,” observed the page, addressing Jacques.
“Very!” answered Jacques, glancing at Marguerite with a sense of relief as he saw that the hood had been drawn over her beautiful hair, and almost concealed her face.
“Going towards Paris?” continued the stranger.
“Yes,” was the laconic reply.
“Then, perhaps, you will not take it amiss if I offer to bear you company; in these disturbed times, there is safety in numbers.”
“We travel but slowly,” answered Jacques; little pleased with the proposal, for every moment that he spent alone with Marguerite was a grain of gold to him. “You seem better mounted than we are, and will find it hard to keep to our dull pace.”
“I think not; these rough roads fret my poor beast all the more because of his spirit; besides, the country between Versailles and Paris is not always free from highwaymen! I trust you have nothing very precious about you?”
Marguerite raised a hand to her bosom and gave the page a terrified glance from under her hood. The most precious thing on earth lay close to her heart—that order for her father’s release.
Jacques gave no answer to this adroit question, but allowed the page to talk on while he listened in sullen silence.
After a few more efforts to be sociable and enter into conversation, the page rode on, but now and then took a sweeping circuit back, keeping the two travellers in sight until they entered Paris. After that, he followed them at a distance, saw them dismount, and took note of the residence in which they disappeared. This object obtained, the page turned his horse and rode toward that portion of the city in which the Bastille stood, dark, grim, and terrible to look upon.