“Fool, what are you saying?” cried the enraged Marquise. “He, more noble and brave than any gentleman that you ever met? He--this kennel-bred citizen-ruffian of a revolutionist? Are you mad, girl, or--” The Marquise paused a moment and took a deep breath that was as a gasp of sudden understanding. “Is it that you are in love with this wretch!” “Madame!” The exclamation was laden with blended wonder, dignity, and horror. “Well?” demanded Madame de Bellecour severely. “Answer me, Suzanne. Are you in love with this La Boulaye?” “Is there the need to answer?” quoth the girl scornfully. “Surely you forget that I am Mademoiselle de Bellecour, daughter of the Marquise de Bellecour, and that this man is of the canaille, else you had never asked the question.” With an expression of satisfaction the Marquise was sinking back in the carriage, when of a sudden she sat bolt upright. “Someone is riding very desperately,” she cried, a note of alarm ringing in her voice. Above the thud of the coach-horses' hoofs and the rumble of their vehicle sounded now the clatter of someone galloping madly in their wake. Mademoiselle looked from the window into the gathering dusk. “It will be some courier, Madame,” she answered calmly. “None other would ride at such a pace.” “I shall know no rest until we are safely in a Christian country again,” the Marquise complained. The hoof-beats grew nearer, and the dark figure of a horseman dashed suddenly past the window. Simultaneously, a loud, harsh command to halt rang out upon the evening air. The Marquise clutched at her daughter's arm with one hand, whilst with the other she crossed herself, as though their assailant were some emissary of the powers of evil. “Mother in Heaven, deliver us!” she gasped, turning suddenly devout. “Mon Dieu!” cried Mademoiselle, who had recognised the voice that was now haranguing the men on the box--their driver and the ostler of the 'Eagle Inn.' “It is La Boulaye himself.” “La Boulaye?” echoed the Marquise. Then, in a frenzy of terror: “There are the pistols there, Suzanne,” she cried. “You can shoot. Kill him! Kill him!” The girl's lips came tightly together until her mouth seemed no more than a straight line. Her cheeks grew white as death, but her eyes were brave and resolute. She put forth her hand and seized one of the pistols as the carriage with a final jolt came to a standstill. An instant later the door was dragged open, and La Boulaye stood bowing in the rain with mock ceremoniousness and a very contemptuous smile on his stern mouth. He had dismounted, and flung the reins of his horse over the bough of a tree by the roadside. The Marquise shuddered at sight of him, and sought to shrink farther back into the cushions of the carriage.