LITMIR.BIZ

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towards the wall. Pille-Miche covered him, glancing as he did so at the motionless marquis, whose silence he took for an order, and the adjutant-major fell like a tree. Marche-a-Terre ran to share the fresh booty with Pille-Miche; like two hungry crows they disputed and clamored over the still warm body.

      “If you really wish to finish your supper, captain, you can come with me,” said the marquis to Merle.

      The captain followed him mechanically, saying in a low voice: “It is that devil of a strumpet that caused all this. What will Hulot say?”

      “Strumpet!” cried the marquis in a strangled voice, “then she is one?”

      The captain seemed to have given Montauran a death-blow, for he re-entered the house with a staggering step, pale, haggard, and undone.

      Another scene had meanwhile taken place in the dining-room, which assumed, in the marquis’s absence, such a threatening character that Marie, alone without her protector, might well fancy she read her death-warrant in the eyes of her rival. At the noise of the volley the guests all sprang to their feet, but Madame du Gua remained seated.

      “It is nothing,” she said; “our men are despatching the Blues.” Then, seeing the marquis outside on the portico, she rose. “Mademoiselle whom you here see,” she continued, with the calmness of concentrated fury, “came here to betray the Gars! She meant to deliver him up to the Republic.”

      “I could have done so twenty times to-day and yet I saved his life,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil.

      Madame du Gua sprang upon her rival like lightning; in her blind excitement she tore apart the fastenings of the young girl’s spencer, the stuff, the embroidery, the corset, the chemise, and plunged her savage hand into the bosom where, as she well knew, a letter lay hidden. In doing this her jealousy so bruised and tore the palpitating throat of her rival, taken by surprise at the sudden attack, that she left the bloody marks of her nails, feeling a sort of pleasure in making her submit to so degrading a prostitution. In the feeble struggle which Marie made against the furious woman, her hair became unfastened and fell in undulating curls about her shoulders; her face glowed with outraged modesty, and tears made their burning way along her cheeks, heightening the brilliancy of her eyes, as she quivered with shame before the looks of the assembled men. The hardest judge would have believed in her innocence when he saw her sorrow.

      Hatred is so uncalculating that Madame du Gua did not perceive she had overshot her mark, and that no one listened to her as she cried triumphantly: “You shall now see, gentlemen, whether I have slandered that horrible creature.”

      “Not so horrible,” said the bass voice of the guest who had thrown the first stone. “But for my part, I like such horrors.”

      “Here,” continued the cruel woman, “is an order signed by Laplace, and counter-signed by Dubois, minister of war.” At these names several heads were turned to her. “Listen to the wording of it,” she went on.

      “‘The military citizen commanders of all grades, the district

       administrators, the procureur-syndics, et cetera, of the insurgent departments, and particularly those of the localities in which the ci-devant Marquis de Montauran, leader of the brigands and otherwise known as the Gars, may be found, are hereby commanded to give aid and assistance to the citoyenne Marie Verneuil and to obey the orders which she may give them at her discretion.’

      “A worthless hussy takes a noble name to soil it with such treachery,” added Madame du Gua.

      A movement of astonishment ran through the assembly.

      “The fight is not even if the Republic employs such pretty women against us,” said the Baron du Guenic gaily.

      “Especially women who have nothing to lose,” said Madame du Gua.

      “Nothing?” cried the Chevalier du Vissard. “Mademoiselle has a property which probably brings her in a pretty good sum.”

      “The Republic must like a joke, to send strumpets for ambassadors,” said the Abbe Gudin.

      “Unfortunately, Mademoiselle seeks the joys that kill,” said Madame du Gua, with a horrible expression of pleasure at the end she foresaw.

      “Then why are you still living?” said her victim, rising to her feet, after repairing the disorder of her clothes.

      This bitter sarcasm excited a sort of respect for so brave a victim, and silenced the assembly. Madame du Gua saw a satirical smile on the lips of the men, which infuriated her, and paying no attention to the marquis and Merle who were entering the room, she called to the Chouan who followed them. “Pille-Miche!” she said, pointing to Mademoiselle de Verneuil, “take her; she is my share of the booty, and I turn her over to you—do what you like with her.”

      At these words the whole assembly shuddered, for the hideous heads of Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre appeared behind the marquis, and the punishment was seen in all its horror.

      Francine was standing with clasped hands as though paralyzed. Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who recovered her presence of mind before the danger that threatened her, cast a look of contempt at the assembled men, snatched the letter from Madame du Gua’s hand, threw up her head with a flashing eye, and darted towards the door where Merle’s sword was still leaning. There she came upon the marquis, cold and motionless as a statue. Nothing pleaded for her on his fixed, firm features. Wounded to the heart, life seemed odious to her. The man who had pledged her so much love must have heard the odious jests that were cast upon her, and stood there silently a witness of the infamy she had been made to endure. She might, perhaps, have forgiven him his contempt, but she could not forgive his having seen her in so humiliating a position, and she flung him a look that was full of hatred, feeling in her heart the birth of an unutterable desire for vengeance. With death beside her, the sense of impotence almost strangled her. A whirlwind of passion and madness rose in her head; the blood which boiled in her veins made everything about her seem like a conflagration. Instead of killing herself, she seized the sword and thrust it though the marquis. But the weapon slipped between his arm and side; he caught her by the wrist and dragged her from the room, aided by Pille-Miche, who had flung himself upon the furious creature when she attacked his master. Francine shrieked aloud. “Pierre! Pierre! Pierre!” she cried in heart-rending tones, as she followed her mistress.

      The marquis closed the door on the astonished company. When he reached the portico he was still holding the woman’s wrist, which he clasped convulsively, while Pille-Miche had almost crushed the bones of her arm with his iron fingers, but Marie felt only the burning hand of the young leader.

      “You hurt me,” she said.

      For all answer he looked at her a moment.

      “Have you some base revenge to take—like that woman?” she said. Then, seeing the dead bodies on the heap of straw, she cried out, shuddering: “The faith of a gentleman! ha! ha! ha!” With a frightful laugh she added: “Ha! the glorious day!”

      “Yes,” he said, “a day without a morrow.”

      He let go her hand and took a long, last look at the beautiful creature he could scarcely even then renounce. Neither of these proud natures yielded. The marquis may have looked for a tear, but the eyes of the girl were dry and scornful. Then he turned quickly, and left the victim to Pille-Miche.

      “God will hear me, marquis,” she called. “I will ask Him to give you a glorious day without a morrow.”

      Pille-Miche, not a little embarrassed with so rich a prize, dragged her away with some gentleness and a mixture of respect and scorn. The marquis, with a sigh, re-entered the dining-room, his face like that of a dead man whose eyes have not been closed.

      Merle’s presence was inexplicable to the silent spectators of this tragedy; they looked at him in astonishment and their eyes questioned each other. Merle saw their amazement, and, true to his native character, he said, with a smile: “Gentlemen, you will scarcely refuse a glass of wine to a man who is about to make his last journey.”

      It

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