By chance as it whirled by me, one of the leather
curtains flapped back, and I saw for a second by the waning
light--the nearer wheels were no more than two feet from my boot
--a face inside.
A face and no more, and that only for a second. But it froze me.
It was Richelieu's, the Cardinal's; but not as I had been wont to
see it--keen, cold, acute, with intellect and indomitable will in
every feature. This face was contorted with the rage of
impatience, was grim with the fever of haste, and the fear of
death. The eyes burned under the pale brow, the moustache
bristled, the teeth showed through the beard; I could fancy the
man crying 'Faster! Faster!' and gnawing his nails in the
impotence of passion; and I shrank back as if I had been struck.
The next moment the outriders splashed me, the coach was a
hundred paces ahead, and I was left chilled and wondering,
foreseeing the worst, and no longer in any mood for Zaton's.
Such a revelation of such a man was enough to appal me, for a
moment conscience cried out that he must have heard that
Cocheforet had escaped him, and through me.
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