In a moment the scene before her was powerless to hold Marie's
thoughts. In vain did the setting sun cast its gold-dust and its
crimson sheets to the depths of the river and along the meadows and
over the graceful buildings strewn among the rocks; she stood
immovable, gazing at the heights of the Mont Saint-Sulpice. The
frantic hope which had led her to the Promenade was miraculously
realized. Among the gorse and bracken which grew upon those heights
she was certain that she recognized, in spite of the goatskins which
they wore, a number of the guests at La Vivetiere, and among them the
Gars, whose every moment became vivid to her eyes in the softened
light of the sinking sun. A few steps back of the ground of men she
distinguished her enemy, Madame du Gua. For a moment Marie fancied
that she dreamed, but her rival's hatred soon proved to her that the
dream was a living one. The attention she was giving to the least
little gesture of the marquis prevented her from observing the care
with which Madame du Gua aimed a musket at her. But a shot which woke
the echoes of the mountains, and a ball that whistled past her warned
Mademoiselle de Verneuil of her rival's determination. "She sends me
her card," thought Marie, smiling. Instantly a "Qui vive?" echoing
from sentry to sentry, from the castle to the Porte Saint-Leonard,
proved to the Chouans the alertness of the Blues, inasmuch as the
least accessible of their ramparts was so well guarded.
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