It had cost Roger a lot to say that, but he wanted to leave an impression with her that she had not, after all, lost so much by losing him; and thus cause her heart to incline the more speedily towards her husband.
He was all the more disconcerted when she suddenly cried in a tone of reproach: "Oh, Rojé, Rojé! You have no need to praise his qualities and decry your own. Have I not told you that I will be a good wife to him; and this marriage gives both him and me a better prospect of contentment than any our parents would have made for us. But 'tis not for their worthiness that women love men. If aught could make me love him 'tis his generosity in having left us here expressly that you might take me in your arms again. Yet you waste these precious minutes in talking like a fool!"
Her eyes were swimming with tears as she swayed towards him and, all his better resolutions gone, he caught her to his breast. For a few moments they clung together, then she took from her middle finger a great sapphire ring and put it on the little finger of his left hand.
"Take this," she said, smiling wanly. "You'll not need it to remember me by, but it may serve you in some emergency. 'Twas the ring de Caylus gave me on my betrothal to him, so in any case I would wear it no longer. And 'twould pleasure me to think that his gift had saved you in a time of trouble."
As he thanked her she went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. Giving him one she lifted the other, and said: "Should we meet again 'twill be only as friends, so I give a toast. To our memories and our future friendship."
"To our memories and our future friendship," he repeated, and they both drank down the wine.
Their empty glasses were still in their hands when de la Tour d'Auvergne re-entered the room.
She turned away to hide her tear-dimmed eyes, but he did not even glance at her, and said to Roger with a smile: "I have chosen and vetted the best fresh mount in the stables, and 'tis outside ready saddled for you. What we owe to one another no words can express so let us not attempt it. Instead we'll wish each other God-speed and a renewal of our friendship. May it not be too long before we meet again. Let's drink a glass of wine to that."
"You put my own thoughts better than I could have put them myself," Roger smiled back; and filling the glasses he drank again with de la Tour d'Auvergne. Then all three of them went out into the night.
As they reached the yard the Vicomte murmured: "Your best road is to Gisors, and thence to Gournay."
"And yours?" asked Roger. "I would like to know as I shall be thinking of you."
"We shall make for Evreux and should reach the town by six o'clock. Tis there I hope to find a priest to marry us."
"My prayers for your happiness go with you."
"And mine with you for your good fortune."
Athenais was already seated in the chaise. As the Vicomte settled himself beside her she extended a slender hand to Roger. Bowing over it he kissed her fingertips. Then he took one last look at the beautiful face that four years before, when still that of a child, had thrown an instant enchantment over him. He had seen it proud, angry, sullen, disfigured, and finally, as the adoring face of a most lovely woman. The magnificent blue eyes were still dim with tears but they smiled bravely, and serenely now, upon him. He released her hand and closed the door.
Before the chaise was out of the yard he had mounted the horse that the ostler was holding for him. A moment later his love and his friend were being whirled along the road to the north-west as fast as six fresh horses could carry them; while he had turned his mount on to the road to the north-east and was settling down to ride for his life—and to reach England with the letter that might prevent a war.
CHAPTER XXIV
ONE THOUSAND LOUIS REWARD
I T was just on four in the morning when Roger galloped out of the courtyard of the Grand Cerf at Mantes; at a quarter to six he drew rein in that of the De Blanmont at Gisors. In the stable he changed his horse for a chestnut gelding and, within five minutes, was on his way again.
Now that the morning light had come the peasants were wending their way out into the fields, but he took no notice of them or of the countryside through which he passed. His every thought was concentrated on choosing the best ground for his mount, and seeing that each time he adjusted its pace it should not jolt and tire him needlessly.
By seven o'clock he reached Gournay, changed his chestnut for a bay mare at the Auberge du Nord, and took the road to Neufchatel. This stage was longer than the last and the vigour of the good wine he had drunk in Mantes had now passed out of him. Moreover, shortly after eight o'clock it began to rain, which soon made the going heavier; so he did not reach Neufchatel until a quarter past nine.
He had now covered over fifty miles and still had twenty-five to go; the fourth and last stage of his journey being considerably the longest; so, on dismounting in the yard of the Lion d'Or, he decided to give himself a rest before undertaking it.
Going into the inn he ordered coffee, laced it well with cognac and, lying back in an elbow chair with his long legs stretched out before him, drank it slowly. At a quarter to ten he went out into the rain, mounted a mettlesome strawberry roan that had been saddled for him and took the road to Dieppe.
A wind had now got up and was blowing the rain against his face in gusty squalls. Before he covered half the distance he was feeling both tired and dejected. His knees and thigh muscles were aching acutely from their hours of constant pressure on his mounts, in two places he was saddle-sore and the slippery reins were hurting where he gripped them with the gloved fingers of his left hand. Despite these physical afflictions he had no doubts about his ability to reach Dieppe, but he was now extremely perturbed by the state of the weather. The fine spell had clearly broken and with every mile he covered towards the sea'conditions worsened, so he was desperately afraid that all sailings might be cancelled on that account.
At a quarter past twelve he urged the flagging, foam-flecked roan past the turnpike at the entrance to Dieppe and asked the way down to the harbour. He was aching in every limb and soaked to the skin, but he had done the journey from Paris well under twelve hours and he felt confident that no ordinary courier would do it under eighteen; so, with the hour or two's start he must have had over any agent that M. de Crosne might have despatched to Dieppe, he felt that he still had a clear field for the best part of eight hours, and would get clean away if only a boat were leaving before nightfall.
But on reaching the pier from which the packets left for Newhaven, his worst fears were realised. He was told that the boat that would normally have left at six that evening would not be sailing, owing to the storm in the Channel.
He knew that the first inquiries for him would be made at the official posting-house; so instead of going there he went to a small inn on the Quai Henri IV, called Le Bon Matelot and stabled his horse. Then, tired, wet and sore as he was, he went out and spent two hours dragging himself round the harbour district from one dnnking-booth to another, frantically endeavouring to find a Captain who would put out for England in the storm.
Normally, the money he had on him would have been ample to induce some poor fisherman to undertake the trip, but none of them would do so in such weather. It occurred to him then that this was just the sort of emergency that Athenais had had in mind when she had given him de Caylus's ring; so he showed it to several of the fishing-masters and offered it in exchange for an immediate passage to England.