On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so disturbed the souls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby, the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue Marigny in his phaeton. About the centre of the avenue the horses took fright, and started off at a wild pace. The Marquess was an experienced whip, calm, and with exertion still very powerful. He would have soon mastered the horses, had not one of the reins unhappily broken. The horses swerved; the Marquess kept his seat; Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was dashed against the trunk of a tree, and she was thrown out of it, at the very instant that one of the outriders had succeeded in heading the equipage and checking the horses.
The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had descended from the phaeton; several passengers had assembled; the door of a contiguous house was opened; there were offers of service, sympathy, inquiries, a babble of tongues, great confusion.
‘Get surgeons and send for her maid,’ said Lord Monmouth to one of his servants.
In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia, on horseback, followed by a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs Elysées. The empty phaeton, reins broken, horses held by strangers, all the appearances of a misadventure, attracted him. He recognised the livery. He instantly dismounted. Moving aside the crowd, he perceived Lady Monmouth senseless and prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining the injudicious efforts of the bystanders.
‘Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth,’ said Sidonia, exchanging a recognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into the dwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing at the door assisted him. The woman of the house and Lord Monmouth only were present.
‘I would hope there is no fracture,’ said Sidonia, placing her on a sofa, ‘nor does it appear to me that the percussion of the head, though considerable, could have been fatally violent. I have caught her pulse. Keep her in a horizontal position, and she will soon come to herself.’
The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa, which Sidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was silent and very serious. Sidonia opened the window, and touched the brow of Lucretia with water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a surgeon entered the chamber.
‘The brain cannot be affected, with that pulse,’ said the surgeon; ‘there is no fracture.’
‘How pale she is!’ said Lord Monmouth, as if he were examining a picture.
‘The colour seems to me to return,’ said Sidonia.
The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought with him. The face of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she stirred.
‘She revives,’ said the surgeon.
The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half-opened her eyes, and then instantly closed them.
‘If I could but get her to take this draught,’ said the surgeon.
‘Stop! moisten her lips first,’ said Sidonia.
They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment she put forth her hand as if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed.
‘She is herself,’ said the surgeon.
‘Lucretia!’ said the Marquess.
‘Sidonia!’ said the Marchioness.
Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his friend to come forward.
‘Lady Monmouth!’ said Sidonia, in a gentle voice.
She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. ‘Where am I?’ she exclaimed.
‘With me,’ said the Marquess; and he bent forward to her, and took her hand.
‘Sidonia!’ she again exclaimed, in a voice of inquiry.
‘Is here,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘He carried you in after our accident.’
‘Accident! Why is he going to marry?’
The Marquess took a pinch of snuff.
There was an awkward pause in the chamber.
‘I think now,’ said Sidonia to the surgeon, ‘that Lady Monmouth would take the draught.’
She refused it.
‘Try you, Sidonia,’ said the Marquess, rather dryly.
‘You feel yourself again?’ said Sidonia, advancing.
‘Would I did not!’ said the Marchioness, with an air of stupor. ‘What has happened? Why am I here? Are you married?’
‘She wanders a little,’ said Sidonia.
The Marquess took another pinch of snuff.
‘I could have borne even repulsion,’ said Lady Monmouth, in a voice of desolation, ‘but not for another!’
‘M. Villebecque!’ said the Marquess.
‘My Lord?’
Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny which would daunt a galley-slave; and then, after a short pause, said, ‘The carriage should have arrived by this time. Let us get home.’