“We did our best,” the minister answered humbly. “From the day we met in Paris we have been but instruments.”
“To save Angers?”
“To save a remnant.”
On a sudden the Countess raised her hand. “Do you not hear horses, Monsieur?” she cried. She had been listening to the noises of the night, and had paid little heed to what the two were saying.
“One of ours moved,” Tignonville answered listlessly. “Why do you not lie down, Madame?”
Instead of answering, “Whither is he going?” she asked. “Do you know?”
“I wish I did know,” the young man answered peevishly. “To Niort, it may be. Or presently he will double back and recross the Loire.”
“He would have gone by Cholet to Niort,” La Tribe said. “The direction is rather that of Rochelle. God grant we be bound thither!”
“Or to Vrillac,” the Countess cried, clasping her hands in the darkness. “Can it be to Vrillac he is going?”
The minister shook his head.
“Ah, let it be to Vrillac!” she cried, a thrill in her voice. “We should be safe there. And he would be safe.”
“Safe?” echoed a fourth and deeper voice. And out of the darkness beside them loomed a tall figure.
The minister looked and leapt to his feet. Tignonville rose more slowly.
The voice was Tavannes’. “And where am I to be safe?” he repeated slowly, a faint ring of saturnine amusement in his tone.
“At Vrillac!” she cried. “In my house, Monsieur!”
He was silent a moment. Then, “Your house, Madame? In which direction is it, from here?”
