h the western side of the church, with which they form an
alley-way, the farther end of which opens on a steep street skirting
the church and leading to the gate of Saint-Leonard, along which
Mademoiselle de Verneuil now made her way.

Marie naturally avoided entering the square of the church which was then
above her, and turned towards the Promenade. The magnificence of
the scene which met her eyes silenced for a moment the tumult of her
passions. She admired the vast trend of the valley, which her eyes took
in, from the summit of La Pelerine to the plateau where the main road to
Vitry passes; then her eyes rested on the Nid-aux-Crocs and the winding
gorges of the Val de Gibarry, the crests of which were bathed in the
misty glow of the setting sun. She was almost frightened by the depth of
the valley of the Nancon, the tallest poplars of which scarcely reached
to the level of the gardens below the Queen's Staircase. At this time of
day the smoke from the houses in the suburbs and in the valleys made a
vapor in the air, through which the various objects had a bluish tinge;
the brilliant colors of the day were beginning to fade; the firmament
took a pearly tone; the moon was casting its veil of light into the
ravine; all things tended to plunge the soul into reverie and bring back
the memory of those beloved.

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