“I sought an audience with the King,” she was saying, “but I could not gain his presence. They told me that he was holding no levees, and that he refused to see any one not introduced by one of those having the private entree.”
“And so,” answered the voice of Chatellerault, in tones that were perfectly colourless, “you come to me that I may present you to his Majesty?”
“You have guessed it, Monsieur le Comte. You are the only gentleman of His Majesty’s suite, with whom I can claim acquaintance – however slight – and, moreover, it is well known how high you stand in his royal favour. I was told that they that have a boon to crave can find no better sponsor.”
“Had you gone to the King, mademoiselle,” said he, “had you gained audience, he would have directed you to make your appeal to me. I am his Commissioner in Languedoc, and the prisoners attainted with high treason are my property.”
“Why then, monsieur,” she cried in an eager voice, that set my pulses throbbing, “you’ll not deny me the boon I crave? You’ll not deny me his life?”
There was a short laugh from Chatellerault, and I could hear the deliberate fall of his feet as he paced the chamber.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, you must not overrate my powers. You must not forget that I am the slave of Justice. You may be asking more than is in my power to grant. What can you advance to show that I should be justified in proceeding as you wish?”
“Helas, monsieur, I can advance nothing but my prayers and the assurance that a hideous mistake is being made.”
“What is your interest in this Monsieur de Lesperon?”
“He is not Monsieur de Lesperon,” she cried.
“But, since you cannot tell me who he is, you must be content that we speak of him at least as Lesperon,” said he, and I could imagine the evil grin with which he would accompany the words.
The better that you may appreciate that which followed, let me here impart to you the suspicions which were already sinking into my mind, to be changed later into absolute convictions touching the course the Count intended to pursue concerning me. The sudden arrival of the King had thrown him into some measure of panic, and no longer daring to carry out his plans concerning me, it was his object, I made no doubt, to set me at liberty that very evening. Ere he did so, however, and presuming upon my ignorance of His Majesty’s presence in Toulouse, Chatellerault would of a certainty have bound me down by solemn promise – making that promise the price of my liberty and my life – to breathe no word of my captivity and trial. No doubt, his cunning brain would have advanced me plausible and convincing reasons so to engage myself.
He had not calculated upon Castelroux, nor that the King should already have heard of my detention. Now that Roxalanne came to entreat him to do that which already he saw himself forced to do, he turned his attention to the profit that he might derive from her interestedness on my behalf. I could guess also something of the jealous rage that must fill him at this signal proof of my success with her, and already I anticipated, I think, the bargain that he would drive.
“Tell me, then,” he was repeating, “what is your interest in this gentleman?”
There was a silence. I could imagine her gentle face clouded with the trouble that sprang from devising an’ answer to that question; I could picture her innocent eyes cast down, her delicate cheeks pinked by some measure of shame, as at last, in a low, stifled voice, the four words broke from her “I love him, monsieur.”
Ah, Dieu! To hear her confess it so! If yesternight it had stirred me to the very depths of my poor, sinful soul to have her say so much to me, how infinitely more did it not affect me to overhear this frank avowal of it to another! And to think that she was undergoing all this to the end that she might save me!
From Chatellerault there came an impatient snort in answer, and his feet again smote the floor as he resumed the pacing that for a moment he had suspended. Then followed a pause, a long silence, broken only by the Count’s restless walking to and fro. At last “Why are you silent, monsieur?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Helas, mademoiselle, I can do nothing. I had feared that it might be thus with you; and, if I put the question, it was in the hope that I was wrong.”
“But he, monsieur?” she exclaimed in anguish. “What of him?”
“Believe me, mademoiselle, if it lay in my power I would save him were he never so guilty, if only that I might spare you sorrow.”
He spoke with tender regret, foul hypocrite that he was!
“Oh, no, no!” she cried, and her voice was of horror and despair. “You do not mean that – ” She stopped short; and then, after a pause, it was the Count who finished the sentence for her.
“I mean, mademoiselle, that this Lesperon must die!”
You will marvel that I let her suffer so, that I did not break down the partition with my hands and strike that supple gentleman dead at her feet in atonement for the anguish he was causing her. But I had a mind to see how far he would drive this game he was engaged upon.
Again there was a spell of silence, and at last, when Mademoiselle spoke, I was amazed at the calm voice in which she addressed him, marvelling at the strength and courage of one so frail and childlike to behold.
“Is your determination, indeed, irrevocable, monsieur? If you have any pity, will you not at least let me bear my prayers and my tears to the King?”
“It would avail you nothing. As I have said, the Languedoc rebels are in my hands.” He paused as if to let those words sink well into her understanding; then, “If I were to set him at liberty, mademoiselle, if I were to spirit him out of prison in the night, bribing his jailers to keep silent and binding him by oath to quit France at once and never to betray me, I should be, myself, guilty of high treason. Thus alone could the thing be done, and you will see, mademoiselle, that by doing it I should be endangering my neck.”
There was an ineffable undercurrent of meaning in his words – an intangible suggestion that he might be bribed to do all this to which he so vaguely alluded.
“I understand, monsieur,” she answered, choking – “I understand that it would be too much to ask of you.”
“It would be much, mademoiselle,” he returned quickly, and his voice was now subdued and invested with an odd quiver. “But nothing that your lips might ask of me and that it might lie in the power of mortal man to do, would be too much!”
“You mean?” she cried, a catch in her breath. Had she guessed – as I, without sight of her face, had guessed – what was to follow? My gorge was rising fast. I clenched my hands, and by an effort I restrained myself to learn that I had guessed aright.
“Some two months ago,” he said, “I journeyed to Lavedan, as you may remember. I saw you, mademoiselle – for a brief while only, it is true – and ever since I have seen nothing else but you.” His voice went a shade lower, and passion throbbed in his words.
She, too, perceived it, for the grating of a chair informed me that she had risen.
“Not now, monsieur – not now!” she exclaimed. “This is not the season. I beg of you think of my desolation.”
“I do, mademoiselle, and I respect your grief, and, with all my heart, believe me, I share it. Yet this is the season, and if you have this man’s interests at heart, you will hear me to the end.”
Through all the imperiousness of his tone an odd note of respect – real or assumed – was sounding.
“If you suffer, mademoiselle, believe me that I suffer also, and if I make you suffer more by what I say, I beg that you will think how what you have said, how the very motive of your presence here, has made me suffer. Do you know, mademoiselle, what it is to be torn by jealousy? Can you imagine it? If you can, you can imagine also something of the torture I endured when you confessed to me that you loved this Lesperon, when you interceded for his life. Mademoiselle, I love you – with all my heart and soul I love you. I have loved you, I think, since the first moment of our meeting at Lavedan, and to win you there is no risk that I would not take, no danger that I would not brave.”