CHAPTER XLV. THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE
Progress was not easy, and very slow along the muddy road; the twocoaches moved along laboriously, with wheels creaking and sinking deeplyfrom time to time in the quagmire.
When the small party finally reached the edge of the wood the greyishlight of this dismal day had changed in the west to a dull reddishglow--a glow that had neither brilliance nor incandescence in it; only aweird tint that hung over the horizon and turned the distance into linesof purple.
The nearness of the sea made itself already felt; there was a brinytaste in the damp atmosphere, and the trees all turned their branchesaway in the same direction against the onslaught of the prevailingwinds.
The road at this point formed a sharp fork, skirting the wood on eitherside, the forest lying like a black close mass of spruce and firs on theleft, while the open expanse of country stretched out on the right. Thesouth-westerly gale struck with full violence against the barrier offorest trees, bending the tall crests of the pines and causing theirsmall dead branches to break and fall with a sharp, crisp sound like acry of pain.
The squad had been fresh at starting; now the men had been four hoursin the saddle under persistent rain and gusty wind; they were tired, andthe atmosphere of the close, black forest so near the road was weighingupon their spirits.
Strange sounds came to them from out the dense network of trees--thescreeching of night-birds, the weird call of the owls, the swift andfurtive tread of wild beasts on the prowl. The cold winter and lack offood had lured the wolves from their fastnesses--hunger had emboldenedthem, and now, as gradually the grey light fled from the sky, dismalhowls could be heard in the distance, and now and then a pair of eyes,bright with the reflection of the lurid western glow, would shinemomentarily out of the darkness like tiny glow-worms, and as quicklyvanish away.
The men shivered--more with vague superstitious fear than with cold.They would have urged their horses on, but the wheels of the coachesstuck persistently in the mud, and now and again a halt had to be calledso that the spokes and axles might be cleared.
They rode on in silence. No one had a mind to speak, and the mournfulsoughing of the wind in the pine-trees seemed to check the words onevery lip. The dull thud of hoofs in the soft road, the clang of steelbits and buckles, the snorting of the horses alone answered the wind,and also the monotonous creaking of the wheels ploughing through theruts.
Soon the ruddy glow in the west faded into soft-toned purple and theninto grey; finally that too vanished. Darkness was drawing in onevery side like a wide, black mantle pulled together closer and closeroverhead by invisible giant hands.
The rain still fell in a thin drizzle that soaked through caps andcoats, made the bridles slimy and the saddles slippery and damp. A veilof vapour hung over the horses' cruppers, and was rendered fuller andthicker every moment with the breath that came from their nostrils. Thewind no longer blew with gusty fury--its strength seemed to have beenspent with the grey light of day--but now and then it would still comesweeping across the open country, and dash itself upon the wall offorest trees, lashing against the horses' ears, catching the corner ofa mantle here, an ill-adjusted cap there, and wreaking its mischievousfreak for a while, then with a sigh of satisfaction die, murmuring amongthe pines.
Suddenly there was a halt, much shouting, a volley of oaths from thedrivers, and citizen Chauvelin thrust his head out of the carriagewindow.
"What is it?" he asked.
"The scouts, citizen," replied the sergeant, who had been riding closeto 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 livemomentarily, for her spirit was absent from her body, which felt neitherfatigue, nor cold, nor pain. But she heard the snorting of the horseclose 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 straightinto the wood, and the hamlet of Le Crocq lies down in the valley on theright."
"Did you follow the road in the wood?"
"Yes, citizen. About two leagues from here there is a clearing with asmall 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 atthe 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 thatall 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 andstabling, the disused buildings of the home farm, I should say."
"Good! We are on the right road, that is clear. Keep ahead with your mennow, but only some two hundred metres or so. Stay!" he added, as if onsecond thoughts. "Ride down to the other coach and ask the prisoner ifwe are on the right track."
The rider turned his horse sharply round. Marguerite heard-the clang ofmetal and the sound of retreating hoofs.
A few moments later the man returned.
"Yes, citizen," he reported, "the prisoner says it is quite right. TheChateau d'Ourde lies a full league from its gates. This is the nearestroad to the chapel and the chateau. He says we should reach the formerin half an hour. It will be very dark in there," he added with asignificant 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 hissmall 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 forhimself amongst the restless, champing animals, without the slightesthesitation or fear.
Soon his retreating figure lost its sharp outline silhouetted againstthe evening sky. It was enfolded in the veil of vapour which was blownout of the horses' nostrils or rising from their damp cruppers;it became more vague, almost ghost-like, through the mist and thefast-gathering gloom.
Presently a group of troopers hid him entirely from her view, but shecould hear his thin, smooth voice quite clearly as he called to citizenHeron.
"We are close to the end of our journey now, citizen," she heard himsay. "If the prisoner has not played us false little Capet should be inour charge within the hour."
A growl not unlike those that came from out the mysterious depths of theforest answered him.
"If he is not," and Marguerite recognised the harsh tones of citizenHeron--"if he is not, then two corpses will be rotting in this woodtomorrow for the wolves to feed on, and the prisoner will be on his wayback to Paris with me."
Some one laughed. It might have been one of the troopers, more callousthan his comrades, but to Marguerite the laugh had a strange, familiarring 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 nowgive me an order--couched in whatever terms he may think necessary--buta distinct order to his friends to give up Capet to me without anyresistance. I could then take some of the men with me, and ride asquickly as the light will allow up to the chateau, and take possessionof it, of Capet, and of those who are with him. We could get alongfaster thus. One man can give up his horse to me and continue thejourney on the box of your coach. The two carriages could then follow atfoot pace. But I fear that if we stick together complete darknesswill overtake us and we might find ourselves obliged to pass a veryuncomfortable 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. "Youmust do as you think right--you planned the whole of this affair--see toit that it works out well in the end."
"How many men shall I take with me? Our advance guard is here, ofcourse."
r /> "I couldn't spare you more than four more men--I shall want the othersto 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 youreally only need to guard the woman--her life will answer for theothers."
He had raised his voice when he said this, obviously intending thatMarguerite and Armand should hear.
"Then I'll ahead," he continued, apparently in answer to an assentfrom his colleague. "Sir Percy, will you be so kind as to scribble thenecessary words on these tablets?"
There was a long pause, during which Marguerite heard plainly the longand dismal cry of a night bird that, mayhap, was seeking its mate. ThenChauvelin's voice was raised again.
"I thank you," he said; "this certainly should be quite effectual. Andnow, citizen Heron, I do not think that under the circumstances we needfear an ambuscade or any kind of trickery--you hold the hostages. Andif by any chance I and my men are attacked, or if we encounter armedresistance at the chateau, I will despatch a rider back straightway toyou, and--well, you will know what to do."
His voice died away, merged in the soughing of the wind, drowned bythe clang of metal, of horses snorting, of men living and breathing.Marguerite felt that beside her Armand had shuddered, and that in thedarkness his trembling hand had sought and found hers.
She leaned well out of the window, trying to see. The gloom had gatheredmore closely in, and round her the veil of vapour from the horses'steaming cruppers hung heavily in the misty air. In front of her thestraight lines of a few fir trees stood out dense and black against thegreyness beyond, and between these lines purple tints of various tonesand shades mingled one with the other, merging the horizon line with thesky. Here and there a more solid black patch indicated the tiny housesof the hamlet of Le Crocq far down in the valley below; from some ofthese houses small lights began to glimmer like blinking yellow eyes.Marguerite's gaze, however, did not rest on the distant landscape--ittried to pierce the gloom that hid her immediate surroundings; themounted men were all round the coach--more closely round her than thetrees in the forest. But the horses were restless, moving all thetime, and as they moved she caught glimpses of that other coach and ofChauvelin's ghostlike figure, walking rapidly through the mist. Just forone brief moment she saw the other coach, and Heron's head and shouldersleaning out of the window. If his sugar-loaf hat was on his head, and thebandage 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 mealto-night, and the guillotine will not be cheated either."
Armand put his arm round his sister's shoulders and gently drew her backinto the carriage.
"Little mother," he said, "if you can think of a way whereby my lifewould 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."