Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife,
terrified of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life; they hoped to be
forgotten, and at any rate to remain unperceived: Marguerite could not
even hear their usual volleys of muttered oaths.
She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped
down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her and
slipped out of the inn.
The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide
her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the
sound of the cart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within
the shadow of the ditches which lined the road, that she would not be
seen by Desgas' men, when they approached, or by the patrols, which
she concluded were still on duty.
Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary
journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to
Miquelon, and then on to the Pere Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal
spot might be, probably over rough roads: she cared not.
The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was
wary with mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could
easily keep up with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who was
sure to be half-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent
rests.
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