Progress was not easy, and very slow along the muddy road; the two coaches moved along laboriously, with wheels creaking and sinking deeply from time to time in the quagmire.
When the small party finally reached the edge of the wood the greyish light of this dismal day had changed in the west to a dull reddish glow—a glow that had neither brilliance nor incandescence in it; only a weird tint that hung over the horizon and turned the distance into lines of purple.
The nearness of the sea made itself already felt; there was a briny taste in the damp atmosphere, and the trees all turned their branches away in the same direction against the onslaught of the prevailing winds.
The road at this point formed a sharp fork, skirting the wood on either side, the forest lying like a black close mass of spruce and firs on the left, while the open expanse of country stretched out on the right. The south-westerly gale struck with full violence against the barrier of forest trees, bending the tall crests of the pines and causing their small dead branches to break and fall with a sharp, crisp sound like a cry of pain.
The squad had been fresh at starting; now the men had been four hours in the saddle under persistent rain and gusty wind; they were tired, and the atmosphere of the close, black forest so near the road was weighing upon their spirits.
Strange sounds came to them from out the dense network of trees—the screeching of night-birds, the weird call of the owls, the swift and furtive tread of wild beasts on the prowl. The cold winter and lack of food had lured the wolves from their fastnesses—hunger had emboldened them, and now, as gradually the grey light fled from the sky, dismal howls could be heard in the distance, and now and then a pair of eyes, bright with the reflection of the lurid western glow, would shine momentarily out of the darkness like tiny glow-worms, and as quickly vanish away.
The men shivered—more with vague superstitious fear than with cold. They would have urged their horses on, but the wheels of the coaches stuck persistently in the mud, and now and again a halt had to be called so that the spokes and axles might be cleared.
They rode on in silence. No one had a mind to speak, and the mournful soughing of the wind in the pine-trees seemed to check the words on every lip. The dull thud of hoofs in the soft road, the clang of steel bits and buckles, the snorting of the horses alone answered the wind, and also the monotonous creaking of the wheels ploughing through the ruts.
Soon the ruddy glow in the west faded into soft-toned purple and then into grey; finally that too vanished. Darkness was drawing in on every side like a wide, black mantle pulled together closer and closer overhead by invisible giant hands.
The rain still fell in a thin drizzle that soaked through caps and coats, made the bridles slimy and the saddles slippery and damp. A veil of vapour hung over the horses’ cruppers, and was rendered fuller and thicker every moment with the breath that came from their nostrils. The wind no longer blew with gusty fury—its strength seemed to have been spent with the grey light of day—but now and then it would still come sweeping across the open country, and dash itself upon the wall of forest trees, lashing against the horses’ ears, catching the corner of a mantle here, an ill-adjusted cap there, and wreaking its mischievous freak for a while, then with a sigh of satisfaction die, murmuring among the pines.
Suddenly there was a halt, much shouting, a volley of oaths from the drivers, and citizen Chauvelin thrust his head out of the carriage window.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The scouts, citizen,” replied the sergeant, who had been riding close to the coach door all this while; “they have returned.”
“Tell one man to come straight to me and report.”
Marguerite sat quite still. Indeed, she had almost ceased to live momentarily, for her spirit was absent from her body, which felt neither fatigue, nor cold, nor pain. But she heard the snorting of the horse close by as its rider pulled him up sharply beside the carriage door.
“Well?” said Chauvelin curtly.
“This is the cross-road, citizen,” replied the man; “it strikes straight into the wood, and the hamlet of Le Crocq lies down in the valley on the right.”
“Did you follow the road in the wood?”
“Yes, citizen. About two leagues from here there is a clearing with a small stone chapel, more like a large shrine, nestling among the trees. Opposite to it the angle of a high wall with large wrought-iron gates at the corner, and from these a wide drive leads through a park.”
“Did you turn into the drive?”
“Only a little way, citizen. We thought we had best report first that all is safe.”
“You saw no one?”
“No one.”
“The chateau, then, lies some distance from the gates?”
“A league or more, citizen. Close to the gates there are outhouses and stabling, the disused buildings of the home farm, I should say.”
“Good! We are on the right road, that is clear. Keep ahead with your men now, but only some two hundred metres or so. Stay!” he added, as if on second thoughts. “Ride down to the other coach and ask the prisoner if we are on the right track.”
The rider turned his horse sharply round. Marguerite heard-the clang of metal and the sound of retreating hoofs.
A few moments later the man returned.
“Yes, citizen,” he reported, “the prisoner says it is quite right. The Chateau d’Ourde lies a full league from its gates. This is the nearest road to the chapel and the chateau. He says we should reach the former in half an hour. It will be very dark in there,” he added with a significant nod in the direction of the wood.
Chauvelin made no reply, but quietly stepped out of the coach. Marguerite watched him, leaning out of the window, following his small trim figure as he pushed his way past the groups of mounted men, catching at a horse’s bit now and then, or at a bridle, making a way for himself amongst the restless, champing animals, without the slightest hesitation or fear.
Soon his retreating figure lost its sharp outline silhouetted against the evening sky. It was enfolded in the veil of vapour which was blown out of the horses’ nostrils or rising from their damp cruppers; it became more vague, almost ghost-like, through the mist and the fast-gathering gloom.
Presently a group of troopers hid him entirely from her view, but she could hear his thin, smooth voice quite clearly as he called to citizen Heron.
“We are close to the end of our journey now, citizen,” she heard him say. “If the prisoner has not played us false little Capet should be in our charge within the hour.”
A growl not unlike those that came from out the mysterious depths of the forest answered him.
“If he is not,” and Marguerite recognised the harsh tones of citizen Heron—“if he is not, then two corpses will be rotting in this wood tomorrow for the wolves to feed on, and the prisoner will be on his way back to Paris with me.”
Some one laughed. It might have been one of the troopers, more callous than his comrades, but to Marguerite the laugh had a strange, familiar ring in it, the echo of something long since past and gone.
Then Chauvelin’s voice once more came clearly to her ear:
“My suggestion, citizen,” he was saying, “is that the prisoner shall now give me an order—couched in whatever terms he may think necessary—but a distinct order to his friends to give up Capet to me without any resistance. I could then take some of the men with me, and ride as quickly as the light will allow up to the chateau, and take possession of it, of Capet, and of those who are with him. We could get along faster thus. One man can give up his horse to me and continue the journey on the box of your coach. The two carriages could then follow at foot pace. But I fear that if we stick together complete darkness will overtake us and we might find ourselves obliged to pass a very uncomfortable night in this wood.”
“I won’t spend another night in this suspense—it would kill me,” growled Heron to the accompaniment of one of his choicest oaths. “You must do as you think right—you planned the whole of this affair—see to it that it works out well in the end.”
“How many men shall I take with me? Our advance guard is here, of course.”
“I couldn’t spare you more than four more men—I shall want the others to guard the prisoners.”
“Four men will be quite sufficient, with the four of the advance guard. That will leave you twelve men for guarding your prisoners, and you really only need to guard the woman—her life will answer for the others.”
He had raised his voice when he said this, obviously intending that Marguerite and Armand should hear.
“Then I’ll ahead,” he continued, apparently in answer to an assent from his colleague. “Sir Percy, will you be so kind as to scribble the necessary words on these tablets?”
There was a long pause, during which Marguerite heard plainly the long and dismal cry of a night bird that, mayhap, was seeking its mate. Then Chauvelin’s voice was raised again.
“I thank you,” he said; “this certainly should be quite effectual. And now, citizen Heron, I do not think that under the circumstances we need fear an ambuscade or any kind of trickery—you hold the hostages. And if by any chance I and my men are attacked, or if we encounter armed resistance at the chateau, I will despatch a rider back straightway to you, and—well, you will know what to do.”
His voice died away, merged in the soughing of the wind, drowned by the clang of metal, of horses snorting, of men living and breathing. Marguerite felt that beside her Armand had shuddered, and that in the darkness his trembling hand had sought and found hers.
She leaned well out of the window, trying to see. The gloom had gathered more closely in, and round her the veil of vapour from the horses’ steaming cruppers hung heavily in the misty air. In front of her the straight lines of a few fir trees stood out dense and black against the greyness beyond, and between these lines purple tints of various tones and shades mingled one with the other, merging the horizon line with the sky. Here and there a more solid black patch indicated the tiny houses of the hamlet of Le Crocq far down in the valley below; from some of these houses small lights began to glimmer like blinking yellow eyes. Marguerite’s gaze, however, did not rest on the distant landscape—it tried to pierce the gloom that hid her immediate surroundings; the mounted men were all round the coach—more closely round her than the trees in the forest. But the horses were restless, moving all the time, and as they moved she caught glimpses of that other coach and of Chauvelin’s ghostlike figure, walking rapidly through the mist. Just for one brief moment she saw the other coach, and Heron’s head and shoulders leaning out of the window. His sugar-loaf hat was on his head, and the bandage across his brow looked like a sharp, pale streak below it.
“Do not doubt it, citizen Chauvelin,” he called out loudly in his harsh, raucous voice, “I shall know what to do; the wolves will have their meal to-night, and the guillotine will not be cheated either.”
Armand put his arm round his sister’s shoulders and gently drew her back into the carriage.
“Little mother,” he said, “if you can think of a way whereby my life would redeem Percy’s and yours, show me that way now.”
But she replied quietly and firmly:
“There is no way, Armand. If there is, it is in the hands of God.”
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