“Must I really answer such a question, Monsieur le President?” he inquired in a voice and with a manner that clearly implied how low would be his estimate of the President’s intelligence if he were, indeed, constrained to do so.
“But no, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the President with sudden haste, and in scornful rejection of the idea. “There is no necessity that you should answer.”
“But the question, Monsieur le President!” I thundered, my hand outstretched towards Chatellerault. “Ask him – if you have any sense of your duty – ask him am I not Marcel de Bardelys.”
“Silence!” blazed the President back at me. “You shall not fool us any longer, you nimble-witted liar!”
My head drooped. This coward had, indeed, shattered my last hope.
“Some day, monsieur,” I said very quietly, “I promise you that your behaviour and these gratuitous insults shall cost you your position. Pray God they do not cost you also your head!”
My words they treated as one might treat the threats of a child. That I should have had the temerity to utter them did but serve finally to decide my doom, if, indeed, anything had been wanting.
With many epithets of opprobrium, such as are applied to malefactors of the lowest degree, they passed sentence of death upon me, and with drooping spirits, giving myself up for lost and assured that I should be led to the block before many hours were sped, I permitted them to reconduct me through the streets of Toulouse to my prison.
I could entertain you at length upon my sensations as I walked between my guards, a man on the threshold of eternity, with hundreds of men and women gaping at me – men and women who would live for years to gape upon many another wretch in my position. The sun shone with a brilliance that to such eyes as mine was a very mockery. Thus would it shine on through centuries, and light many another unfortunate to the scaffold. The very sky seemed pitiless in the intensity of its cobalt. Unfeeling I deemed the note that everywhere was struck by man and Nature, so discordant was it with my gloomy outlook. If you would have food for reflection upon the evanescent quality of life, upon the nothingness of man, upon the empty, heartless egoism implicit in human nature, get yourselves sentenced to death, and then look around you. With such a force was all this borne in upon me, and with such sufficiency, that after the first pang was spent I went near to rejoicing that things were as they were, and that I was to die, haply before sunset. It was become such a world as did not seem worth a man’s while to live in: a world of vainness, of hollowness, of meanness, of nothing but illusions. The knowledge that I was about to die, that I was about to quit all this, seemed to have torn some veil from my eyes, and to have permitted me to recognize the worthless quality of what I left. Well may it be that such are but the thoughts of a man’s dying moments, whispered into his soul by a merciful God to predispose him for the wrench and agony of his passing.
I had been a half-hour in my cell when the door was opened to admit Castelroux, whom I had not seen since the night before. He came to condole with me in my extremity, and yet to bid me not utterly lose hope.
“It is too late to-day to carry out the sentence,” said he, “and as to-morrow will be Sunday, you will have until the day after. By then much may betide, monsieur. My agents are everywhere scouring the province for your servants, and let us pray Heaven that they may succeed in their search.”
“It is a forlorn hope, Monsieur de Castelroux,” I sighed, “and I will pin no faith to it lest I suffer a disappointment that will embitter my last moments, and perhaps rob me of some of the fortitude I shall have need of.”
He answered me, nevertheless, with words of encouragement. No effort was being spared, and if Rodenard and my men were still in Languedoc then was every likelihood that they would be brought to Toulouse in time. Then he added that that, however, was not the sole object of his visit. A lady had obtained permission of the Keeper of the Seals to visit me, and she was waiting to be admitted.
“A lady?” I exclaimed, and the thought of Roxalanne flitted through my mind. “Mademoiselle de Lavedan?” I inquired.
He nodded. “Yes,” said he; then added, “She seems in sore affliction, monsieur.”
I besought him to admit her forthwith, and presently she came. Castelroux closed the door as he withdrew, and we were left alone together. As she put aside her cloak, and disclosed to me the pallor of her face and the disfiguring red about her gentle eyes, telling of tears and sleeplessness, all my own trouble seemed to vanish in the contemplation of her affliction.
We stood a moment confronting each other with no word spoken. Then, dropping her glance, and advancing a step, in a faltering, hesitating manner “Monsieur, monsieur,” she murmured in a suffocating voice.
In a bound I was beside her, and I had gathered her in my arms, her little brown head against my shoulder.
“Roxalanne!” I whispered as soothingly as I might – “Roxalanne!”
But she struggled to be free of my embrace.
“Let me go, monsieur,” she pleaded, a curious shrinking in her very voice. “Do not touch me, monsieur. You do not know – you do not know.”
For answer, I enfolded her more tightly still.
“But I do know, little one,” I whispered; “and I even understand.”
At that, her struggles ceased upon the instant, and she seemed to lie limp and helpless in my arms.
“You know, monsieur,” she questioned me – “you know that I betrayed you?”
“Yes,” I answered simply.
“And you can forgive me? I am sending you to your death and you have no reproaches for me! Oh, monsieur, it will kill me!”
“Hush, child!” I whispered. “What reproaches can I have for you? I know the motives that impelled you.”
“Not altogether, monsieur; you cannot know them. I loved you, monsieur. I do love you, monsieur. Oh! this is not a time to consider words. If I am bold and unmaidenly, I – I–”
“Neither bold nor unmaidenly, but – oh, the sweetest damsel in all France, my Roxalanne!” I broke in, coming to her aid. “Mine was a leprous, sinful soul, child, when I came into Languedoc. I had no faith in any human good, and I looked as little for an honest man or a virtuous woman as one looks for honey in a nettle. I was soured, and my life had hardly been such a life as it was meet to bring into contact with your own. Then, among the roses at Lavedan, in your dear company, Roxalanne, it seemed that some of the good, some of the sweetness, some of the purity about you were infused anew into my heart. I became young again, and I seemed oddly cleansed. In that hour of my rejuvenation I loved you, Roxalanne.”
Her face had been raised to mine as I spoke. There came now a flutter of the eyelids, a curious smile about the lips. Then her head drooped again and was laid against my breast; a sigh escaped her, and she began to weep softly.
“Nay, Roxalanne, do not fret. Come, child, it is not your way to be weak.”
“I have betrayed you!” she moaned. “I am sending you to your death!”
“I understand, I understand,” I answered, smoothing her brown hair.
“Not quite, monsieur. I loved you so, monsieur, that you can have no thought of how I suffered that morning when Mademoiselle de Marsac came to Lavedan.
“At first it was but the pain of thinking that – that I was about to lose you; that you were to go out of my life, and that I should see you no more – you whom I had enshrined so in my heart.
“I called myself a little fool that morning for having dreamed that you had come to care for me; my vanity I thought had deluded me into imagining that your manner towards me had a tenderness that spoke of affection. I was bitter with myself, and I suffered oh, so much! Then later, when I was in the rose garden, you came to me.
“You remember how you seized me, and how by your manner you showed me that it was not vanity alone had misled me. You had fooled me, I thought; even in that hour I imagined you were fooling me; you made light of me; and my sufferings were naught to you so that I might give you some amusement to pass the leisure and monotony of your sojourn with us.”