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come!’
    â€˜Yes, here we are,’ Jeanne declared breathlessly. ‘We left the old devil snoring after last night’s binge.’ Yet she was as eager as Isabelle to get into the coach out of sight and hustled Rose in with her as if she feared he might yet come in roaring pursuit of them.
    Sophie arrived next. She had been hurrying to catch up with her sister and niece, whom she had sighted ahead of her. ‘I’m not late, am I?’ she inquired anxiously. ‘Those two were keeping up such a pace!’
    â€˜No,’ Marguerite assured her. ‘There’s still time to spare.’
    Violette was last, sauntering along with swinging hips and gaily dressed in a scarlet cape and a straw hat with a curling feather, hand baggage in one hand and a basket in the other. ‘Isn’t this going to be fun!’ she cried happily in greeting.
    As soon as Violette had stowed away her belongings as the rest had done and seated herself Marguerite took the place by the window that had been left for her. With the exception of Isabelle all were chattering eagerly. Then there was a sudden flurry of movement in the courtyard and the last of the servants came hurrying to take their places in the coaches. It was clear that the Comtesse was about to leave. Her gleaming equipage had been brought to the steps of the entrance.
    A few moments later there was the glimmer of a blue-velvet cloak as the Comtesse emerged from the house and stepped into the coach. Then the eight horses drawing it came clip-clopping out of the courtyard, the four postilions in the d’Oinville pale-grey livery, to sweep ahead of the waiting vehicles, four armed outriders in escort. With a lurch that nearly shot all the seamstresses off the seats their coach rolled forward.
    â€˜We’re on our way!’ Violette exclaimed joyfully, clapping her hands together as they all sat back again, laughing and talking. Isabelle gave a shuddering sigh of relief.
    The merry chatter continued until the cavalcade of coaches had passed through the gates of Paris, for then everyone was quieter, gazing out at the passing countryside as if they feared it might be the last time they would see it. Before long another coach stood waiting by the roadside. The traveller spoke to the Comtesse, showing her proof of his identity, and gained her permission to follow her entourage, there being greater security travelling in convoy through many lonely places where there was always the danger of attack by highwaymen and other rogues of the road.
    â€˜How did that man know we were coming?’ Rose asked.
    â€˜Word goes quickly by the grapevine,’ her mother replied, ‘but sometimes travellers have to wait days for an armed convoy going in the right direction, especially if they’re going far afield. Most travellers have to go a certain distance with one convoy and then, if it’s not going to their particular destination, they switch to another to follow the route they want. The greater the number travelling together the better the security since every man carries a pistol.’
    At noon the women shared their food. Isabelle had only two slices of stale black bread to offer. Rose grimaced.
    â€˜I’m not having a share of that!’ she exclaimed in disgust. ‘There’s some mould on it.’
    Her mother gave her a sharp dig with an elbow. ‘We’re having no nonsense from you, my girl! You’ll eat your share like everybody else. From what the Comtesse’s maid told Marguerite it isn’t always possible to get food at times in some isolated places we’ll be passing through. So eat up while you have the chance!’
    Isabelle seemed to shrink more into herself, although the two slices were divided up and bravely eaten. Rose’s eyes watered and she gagged but managed to swallow her portion.
    Fortunately none of the seamstresses became nauseous with the sway of the coach over rutted surfaces, but three