"It is she--and he," muttered Marie to herself.
To seek the marquis, follow his steps and overtake him, was a thought
that flashed like lightning through her mind. "I have no weapon!" she
cried. She remembered that on leaving Paris she had flung into a trunk
an elegant dagger formerly belonging to a sultana, which she had
jestingly brought with her to the theatre of war, as some persons take
note-books in which to jot down their travelling ideas; she was less
attracted by the prospect of shedding blood than by the pleasure of
wearing a pretty weapon studded with precious stones, and playing with
a blade that was stainless. Three days earlier she had deeply
regretted having put this dagger in a trunk, when to escape her
enemies at La Vivetiere she had thought for a moment of killing
herself. She now returned to the house, found the weapon, put it in
her belt, wrapped a large shawl round her shoulders and a black
lace scarf about her hair, and covered her head with one of those
broad-brimmed hats distinctive of Chouans which belonged to a servant
of the house. Then, with the presence of mind which excited passions
often give, she took the glove which Marche-a-Terre had given her as a
safeguard, and saying, in reply to Francine's terrible looks, "I would
seek him in hell," she returned to the Promenade.
The Gars was still at the same place, but alone.
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