“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. CHAPTER XXXVII. JOYFUL NEWS. “Mamma! Mamma! I have come! He is saved!” A woman started up, still and white as a ghost, from the dim shadows that had settled around her. She would not believe the joyful news. The very sound of a voice cheerful, and ringing as that which startled the silence of the room had a thrill of mockery for her. She had been so long used to disappointment that joy fell away from her heart unrecognized. “Mamma! dear mamma! do you understand? I have spoken to the queen, the beautiful queen, and the king; so kind, so gentle! Oh, mamma! his goodness is unspeakable! To-morrow, one more night, and you will see my father!” The woman gave a deep gasp, flung out her arms, and fell to the floor insensible—the whitest living thing that joy ever prostrated. “Oh! it has killed her! What can I do? What can I do?” cried the poor girl, appealing piteously to Jacques. “Give her air! Give her water! We broke up the pain of her suspense too suddenly,” answered Jacques, lifting the lady in his arms, and laying her on the bed. “She was strong to battle against sorrow, but this good news has almost taken her life.”