A red reflection passed underneath. The fire was increasing behind it.
The frightful corpse of l'Imânus was there, ominously victorious.
A few minutes more, perhaps, and everything would give way.
What was to be done? there was no more hope.
Gauvain in exasperation cried, with his eye fixed on the turning stone in the wall and on the exit left open by the fugitives,—
"And yet here is where the Marquis de Lantenac made his escape!"
"And where he returns," said a voice.
And a white head appeared in the stone framework of the secret door.
It was the marquis.
Gauvain had not seen him so near for many years. He drew back.
All who were there remained in the same position, petrified.
The marquis had a large key in his hand. He cast a haughty look at the sappers in front of him, walked to the iron door, bent under the arch and put the key into the key-hole. The lock grated, the door opened, a gulf of flame met their eyes, the marquis entered it.
He went into it with a firm step, holding his head high.
All followed him with their eyes, shuddering.
The marquis had taken but a few steps in the burning hall, when the floor, undermined by the fire and shaken by his footsteps, fell in behind him, leaving a precipice between him and the door. The marquis never turned his head but went straight on. He disappeared in the smoke.
Nothing more was seen of him.
Had he been able to go farther? Had a new pit of fire opened under him? Had he only succeeded in being lost himself? They could not tell. They had nothing before them but a wall of smoke and flames. The marquis was beyond it, dead or alive.
