"Not already! Oh, not already!" Thus Aline expressed the silently
communicated thought. She experienced a difficulty in breathing,
felt the sudden need of air. Something in her throat was throbbing
as if it would suffocate her; a mist came and went before her eyes.
In a cloud of dust an open caleche was speeding towards them, coming
from the Bois. They watched it, both pale, neither venturing to
speak, Aline, indeed, without breath to do so.
As it approached, it slowed down, perforce, as they did, to effect
a safe passage in that narrow road. Aline was at the window with
Mme. de Plougastel, and with fearful eyes both looked into this
open carriage that was drawing abreast of them.
"Which of them is it, madame? Oh, which of them?" gasped Aline,
scarce daring to look, her senses swimming.
On the near side sat a swarthy young gentleman unknown to either of
the ladies. He was smiling as he spoke to his companion. A moment
later and the man sitting beyond came into view. He was not smiling.
His face was white and set, and it was the face of the Marquis de La
Tour d'Azyr.
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