early dawn visible upon the roofs of the palace, and
vaguely revealing the outlines of the ivory cross which she held
embraced, she rose from the ground with a new-born strength, kissed the
feet of the divine martyr, descended the staircase leading from the
room, and wrapped herself from head to foot in a mantle as she went
along. She reached the wicket at the very moment the guard of musketeers
opened the gate to admit the first relief-guard belonging to one of the
Swiss regiments. And then, gliding behind the soldiers, she reached the
street before the officer in command of the patrol had even thought of
asking who the young girl was who was making her escape from the palace
at so early an hour.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE FLIGHT.

La Valliere followed the patrol as it left the courtyard. The patrol
bent its steps toward the right, by the Rue St. Honore, and mechanically
La Valliere went to the left. Her resolution was taken--her
determination fixed: she wished to betake herself to the convent of the
Carmelites at Chaillot, the superior of which enjoyed a reputation for
severity which made the worldly minded people of the court tremble. La
Valliere had never seen Paris--she had never gone out on foot, and so
would have been unable to find her way, even had she been in a calmer
frame of mind than was then the case, and this may explain why she
ascended, instead of descending, the Rue St. Honore. Her only thought
was to get away from the Palais Royal, and this she was doing: she had
heard it said that Chaillot looked out upon the Seine, and she
accordingly directed her steps toward the Seine. She took the Rue du
Coq, and not being able to cross the Louvre, bore toward the church of
Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, proceeding along the site of the colonnade
which was subsequently built there by Perrault. In a very short time she
reached the quays. Her steps were rapid and agitated; she scarcely felt
the weakness which reminded her of having sprained her foot when very
young, and which obliged her to limp slightly. At any other hour in the
day her countenance would have awakened the suspicions of the least
clear-sighted persons, or have attracted the attention of the most
indifferent passers-by. But at half-past two in the morning, the streets
of Paris are almost, if not quite, deserted, and scarcely any one is to
be seen but the hard-working artisan on his way to earn his daily bread,
or the dangerous idlers of the street