Fortunately one of the coachmen and two of the older grooms from the stables returned in the early dawn after the street demonstrations outside the Emperor's windows had somewhat calmed down, and with the routine of many years of domestic service had promptly and without murmurings set to to obey the orders given to them the day before: to have the travelling berline ready with four horses by seven o'clock.

It was very cold: the coachman and postillions shivered under their threadbare liveries. The coachman had wrapped a woollen comforter round his neck and pulled his white beaver broad-brimmed hat well over his brows, as the northeast wind was keen and would blow into his face all the way to Lyons, where the party would halt for the night. He had thick woollen gloves on and of his entire burly person only the tip of his nose could be seen between his m.u.f.fler and the brim of his hat. The postillions, whip in hand, could not wrap themselves up quite so snugly: they were trying to keep themselves warm by beating their arms against their chest.

M. le Comte, aided by Hector, was arranging for the disposal of leather wallets underneath the cushions of the carriage. The wallets contained the money--twenty-five millions in notes and drafts--a G.o.dsend to the King if the usurper did succeed in driving him out of the Tuileries.

Presently the ladies came down the perron steps with faithful Jeanne in attendance, who carried small bags and dressing-cases. Both the ladies were wrapped in long fur-lined cloaks and Mme. la d.u.c.h.esse d'Agen had drawn a hood closely round her face; but Crystal de Cambray stood bareheaded in the cold frosty air, the hood of her cloak thrown back, her own fair hair, dressed high, forming the only covering for her head.

Her face looked grave and even anxious, but wonderfully serene. This should have been her wedding morning, the bells of old Brestalou church should even now have been ringing out their first joyous peal to announce the great event. Often and often in the past few weeks, ever since her father had formally betrothed her to Victor de Marmont, she had thought of this coming morning, and steeled herself to be brave against the fateful day. She had been resigned to the decree of the father and to the necessities of family and name--resigned but terribly heartsore. She was obeying of her own free will but not blindly. She knew that her marriage to a man whom she did not love was a sacrifice on her part of every hope of future happiness. Her girlish love for St.

Genis had opened her eyes to the possibilities of happiness; she knew that Life could hold out a veritable cornucopia of delight and joy in a union which was hallowed by Love, and her ready sacrifice was therefore all the greater, all the more sublime, because it was not offered up in ignorance.

But all that now was changed. She was once more free to indulge in those dreams which had gladdened the days and nights of her lonely girlhood out in far-off England: dreams which somehow had not even found their culmination when St. Genis first told her of his love for her. They had always been golden dreams which had haunted her in those distant days, dreams of future happiness and of love which are seldom absent from a young girl's mind, especially if she is a little lonely, has few pleasures and is surrounded with an atmosphere of sadness.

Crystal de Cambray, standing on the perron of her stately home, felt but little sorrow at leaving it to-day: she had hardly had the time in one brief year to get very much attached to it: the sense of unreality which had been born in her when her father led her through its vast halls and stately parks had never entirely left her. The little home in England, the tiny sitting-room with its bow window, and small front garden edged with dusty evergreens, was far more real to her even now. She felt as if the last year with its pomp and gloomy magnificence was all a dream and that she was once more on the threshold of reality now, on the point of waking, when she would find herself once more in her narrow iron bed and see the patched and darned muslin curtains gently waving in the draught.

But for the moment she was glad enough to give herself to the delight of this sudden consciousness of freedom. She sniffed the sharp, frosty air with dilated nostrils like a young Arab filly that scents the illimitable vastness of meadowland around her. The excitement of the coming adventure thrilled her: she watched with glowing eyes the preparations for the journey, the bestowal under the cushions of the carriage of the money which was to help King Louis to preserve his throne.

In a sense she was sorry that her father and her aunt were coming too.

She would have loved to fly across country as a trusted servant of her King; but when the time came to make a start she took her place in the big travelling coach with a light heart and a merry face. She was so sure of the justice of the King's cause, so convinced of G.o.d's wrath against the usurper, that she had no room in her thoughts for apprehension or sadness.

The Comte de Cambray on the other hand was grave and taciturn. He had spent hours last evening on the ramparts of Gren.o.ble. He had watched the dissatisfaction of the troops grow into open rebellion and from that to burning enthusiasm for the Corsican ogre. St. Genis had given him a vivid account of the encounter at Laffray, and his ears were still ringing with the cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" which had filled the streets and ramparts of Gren.o.ble until he himself fled back to his own chateau, sickened at all that he had seen and heard.

He knew that the King's own brother, M. le Comte d'Artois, was at Lyons even now with forty thousand men who were reputed to be loyal, but were not the troops of Gren.o.ble reputed to be loyal too? and was it likely that the regiments at Lyons would behave so very differently to those at Gren.o.ble?

Thus the wearisome journey northwards in the lumbering carriage proceeded mostly in silence. None of the occupants seemed to have much to say. Mme. la d.u.c.h.esse d'Agen and M. le Comte sat on the back seats leaning against the cushions; Crystal de Cambray and ever-faithful Jeanne sat in front, making themselves as comfortable as they could.

There was a halt for _dejeuner_ and change of horses at Rives, and here Maurice de St. Genis overtook the party. He proposed to continue the journey as far as Lyons on horseback, riding close by the off side of the carriage. Here as well as at the next halt, at St. Andre-le-Gaz, Maurice tried to get speech with Crystal, but she seemed cold in manner and unresponsive to his whispered words. He tried to approach her, but she pleaded fatigue and anxiety, and he was glad then that he had made arrangements not to travel beside her in the lumbering coach. His position on horseback beside the carriage would, he felt, be a more romantic one, and he half-hoped that some enterprising footpad would give him a chance of displaying his pluck and his devotion.

A start was made from St. Andre-le-Gaz at six o'clock in the afternoon.

Crystal was getting very cramped and tired, even the fine views over the range of the Grande Chartreuse and the long white plateau of the Dent de Crolles, with the wintry sunset behind it, failed to enchain her attention. Her father and her aunt slept most of the time each in a corner of the carriage, and after the start from St. Andre-le-Gaz, comforted with hot coffee and fresh bread and the prospect of Lyons now only some sixty kilometres away, Crystal settled herself against the cushions and tried to get some sleep.

The incessant shaking of the carriage, the rattle of harness and wheels, the cracking of the postillions' whips, all contributed to making her head ache, and to chase slumber away. But gradually her thoughts became more confused, as the dim winter twilight gradually faded into night and a veil of impenetrable blackness spread itself outside the windows of the coach.

The northeasterly wind had not abated: it whistled mournfully through the cracks in the woodwork of the carriage and made the windows rattle in their framework. On the box the coachman had much ado to see well ahead of him, as the vapour which rose from the flanks and shoulders of his steaming horses effectually blurred every outline on the road. The carriage lanthorns threw a weird and feeble light upon the ever-growing darkness. To right and left the bare and frozen common land stretched its lonely vastness to some distant horizon unseen.

VI

Suddenly the c.u.mbrous vehicle gave a terrific lurch, which sent the unsuspecting Jeanne flying into Mme. la d.u.c.h.esse's lap and threw Crystal with equal violence against her father's knees. There was much cracking of whips, loud calls and louder oaths from coachman and postillions, much creaking and groaning of wheels, another lurch--more feeble this time--more groaning, more creaking, more oaths and finally the coach with a final quivering as it were of all its parts settled down to an ominous standstill.

Whereafter the oaths sounded more m.u.f.fled, while there was a scampering down from the high alt.i.tude of the coachman's box and a confused murmur of voices.

It was then close on eight o'clock: Lyons was distant still some dozen miles or so--and the night by now was darker than pitch.

M. le Comte, roused from fitful slumbers and trying to gather his wandering wits, put his head out of the window: "What is it, Pierre?" he called out loudly. "What has happened?"

"It's this confounded ditch, M. le Comte," came in a gruff voice from out the darkness. "I didn't know the bridge had entirely broken down.

This sacre government will not look after the roads properly."

"Are you there, Maurice?" called the Comte.

But strangely enough there came no answer to his call. M. de St. Genis must have fallen back some little distance in the rear, else he surely would have heard something of the clatter, the shouts and the swearing which were attending the present unfortunate contretemps.

"Maurice! where are you?" called the Comte again. And still no answer.

Pierre was continuing his audible mutterings. "Darkness as black as----": then he shouted with a yet more forcible volley of oaths: "Jean! you oaf! get hold of the off mare, can't you? And you, what's your name, you fool? ease the near gelding. Heavens above, what dolts!"

"Stop a moment," cried M. le Comte, "wait till the ladies can get out.

This pulling and lurching is unbearable."

"Ease a moment," commanded Pierre stolidly. "Go to the near door, Jean, and help the master out of the carriage."

"Hark! what was that?" It was M. le Comte who spoke. There had been a momentary lull in the creaking and groaning of the wheels, while the two young postillions obeyed the coachman's orders to "ease a moment," and one of them came round to help the ladies and his master out of the lurching vehicle; only the horses' snorting, the champing of their bits and pawing of the hard ground broke the silence of the night.

M. le Comte had opened the near door and was half out of the carriage when a sound caught his ear which was in no way connected with the stranded vehicle and its team of snorting horses. Yet the sound came from horses--horses which were on the move not very far away and which even now seemed to be coming nearer.

"Who goes there? Maurice, is that you?" called M. le Comte more loudly.

"Stand and deliver!" came the peremptory response.

"Stand yourself or I fire," retorted the Comte, who was already groping for the pistol which he kept inside the carriage.

"You murderous villain!" came with the inevitable string of oaths from Pierre the coachman. "You . . ."

The rest of this forceful expletive was broken and m.u.f.fled. Evidently Pierre had been summarily gagged. There was a short, sharp scuffle somewhere on ahead; cries for help from the two postillions which were equally sharply smothered. The horses began rearing and plunging.

"One of you at the leaders' heads," came in a clear voice which in this impenetrable darkness sounded weirdly familiar to the occupants of the carriage, who awed, terrified by this unforeseen attack sat motionless, clinging to one another inside the vehicle.

Alone the Comte had not lost his presence of mind. Already he had jumped out of the carriage, banging the door to behind him, despite feeble protests from his sister; pistol in hand he tried with anxious eyes to pierce the inky blackness around him.

A m.u.f.fled groan on his right caused him to turn in that direction.

"Release my coachman," he called peremptorily, "or I fire."

"Easy, M. le Comte," came as a sharp warning out of the night, in those same weirdly familiar tones; "as like as not you would be shooting your own men in this infernal darkness."

"Who is it?" whispered Crystal hoa.r.s.ely. "I seem to know that voice."

"G.o.d protect us," murmured Jeanne. "It's the devil's voice, Mademoiselle."

Mme. la d.u.c.h.esse said nothing. No doubt she was too frightened to speak.

Her thin, bony fingers were clasped tightly round her niece's hands.

Suddenly there was another scuffle by the door, the sharp report of a pistol and then that strangely familiar voice called out again:

"Merely as a matter of form, M. le Comte!"

"You will hang for this, you rogue," came in response from the Comte.