errand.

Fortunately one of the coachmen and two of the older grooms from the
stables returned in the early dawn after the street demonstrations
outside the Emperor's windows had somewhat calmed down, and with the
routine of many years of domestic service had promptly and without
murmurings set to to obey the orders given to them the day before: to
have the travelling berline ready with four horses by seven o'clock.

It was very cold: the coachman and postillions shivered under their
threadbare liveries. The coachman had wrapped a woollen comforter round
his neck and pulled his white beaver broad-brimmed hat well over his
brows, as the northeast wind was keen and would blow into his face all
the way to Lyons, where the party would halt for the night. He had
thick woollen gloves on and of his entire burly person only the tip of
his nose could be seen between his muffler and the brim of his hat. The
postillions, whip in hand, could not wrap themselves up quite so snugly:
they were trying to keep themselves warm by beating their arms against
their chest.

M. le Comte, aided by Hector, was arranging for the disposal of leather
wallets underneath the cushions of the carriage. The wallets contained
the money--twenty-five millions in notes and drafts--a godsend to the
King if the usurper did succeed in driving him out of the Tuileries.

Presently the ladies came down the perron steps with faithful Jeanne in
attendance, who carried small bags and dressing-cases. Both the ladies
were wrapped in long fur-lined cloaks and Mme. la Duchesse d'Agen had
drawn a hood closely round her face; but Crystal de Cambray stood
bareheaded in the cold frosty air, the hood of her cloak thrown back,
her own fair hair, dressed high, forming the only covering for her head.

Her face looked grave and even anxious, but wonderfully serene. This
should have been her wedding morning, the bells of old Brestalou church
should even now have been ringing out their first joyous peal to
announce the great event. Often and often in the past few weeks, ever
since her father had formally betrothed her to Victor de Marmont, she
had thought of this coming morning, and steeled herself to be brave
against the fateful day. She had been resigned to the decree of the
father and to the necessities of family and name--resigned but terribly
heartsore. She was obeying of her own free will but not blindly. She
knew that her marriage to a man whom she did not love was a