The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 3 (of 3)Wingfield, Lewis
History
The Maid of Honour: A Tale of the Dark Days of France. Vol. 3 (of 3)
Wingfield, Lewis
France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
She was alone. Mademoiselle Brunelle for some reason had left her
post. The marquise stole to the door, turned the key, gently shot the
bolt into its socket. Then, grasping her long hair she forced it down
her throat, inducing by irritation a violent sickness, which relieved
her. But how to effect escape? Some one was already rattling the
handle without--the deep voice of Algaé was shouting in imperious
accents, "Open! Let me in!" Despair gave strength and courage.
Gabrielle tore open the casement and got out upon the ledge. Below was
a stone-paved courtyard; opposite, the outer wall, with the postern
that gave on the pleasaunce. Was it locked? No matter. She wore the
key of the new lock upon a bracelet. No time to think. With an
agonized cry to Heaven for succour she leapt, but was held up for a
moment by two strong hands, while close to hers was the face of Algaé,
black and convulsed with fury. Mademoiselle, hearing a noise within,
had rushed round by the boudoir, whose door the marquise had forgotten
in her haste to lock. And now began a fierce and desperate tussle
between the women, which, though neither knew it, was of infinite
service to the victim, for it kept off drowsiness. Strong as she was,
Algaé could not, cramped and strained, sustain the struggling weight,
which escaped from her grasp and fell, while she loudly called for
help. The patient was delirious--in madness had flung herself from the
window and broken her bones upon the pavement. No. She rolled over and
over, and was up again; and Algaé, grinding her teeth, seized one of
the sculptured flower-pots of bronze and dashed it down at her. Sure
the intended victim must bear a charmed life! She sped across the
courtyard, succeeded in unlocking the postern, and emerged upon the
garden moat.
"Well!" muttered Algaé, with a philosophic headshake, "she is in a
trap, for beyond the moat is a wall she cannot pass, and the gates are
closed and guarded. It was stupid of me not to wait, and the abbé will
be angry. Yet the fault is his, for he distinctly said 'an hour.'"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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