"You are right.

There is to be no encounter." Juste's air was slightly mocking, and words of not overdelicate banter rose to his lips, to be instantly quelled by La Boulaye.
"Let your drums beat a rally, Citizen-captain," he commanded briskly.
"We leave Bellecour in ten minutes.".
And indeed, in less than that time the blue-coats were swinging briskly down the avenue.

In the rear rode La Boulaye, his cloak wrapped about him, his square chin buried in his neck-cloth, and his mind deep in meditation.
From a window of the Chateau the lady who was the cause of the young Revolutionist's mental absorption watched the departing soldiers.

On either side of her stood Ombreval and her father.
"My faith, little one," said Bellecour good-humouredly.

"I wonder what magic you have exercised to rid us of that infernal company." "Women have sometimes a power of which men know nothing," was her cryptic answer.
Ombreval turned to her with a scowl of sudden suspicion.
"I trust, Mademoiselle, that you did not--" he stopped short.