Mademoiselle had been the first to be carried away; she was also the
first to recover herself.
"I had forgotten," she cried suddenly, "I had forgotten," and she wrested
herself from his embrace with violence, and stood panting, her face
white, her eyes affrighted. "I must not! And you--I had forgotten that
too! To be here, Monsieur, is the worst office you can do me. You must
go! Go, Monsieur, in mercy I beg of you, while it is possible. Every
moment you are here, every moment you spend in this house, I shudder."
"You need not fear for me," he said, in a tone of bravado. He did not
understand.
"I fear for myself!" she answered. And then, wringing her hands, divided
between her love for him and her fear for herself, "Oh, forgive me!" she
said. "You do not know that he has promised to spare me, if he cannot
produce you, and--and--a minister? He has granted me that; but I thought
when you entered that he had gone back on his word, and sent a priest,
and it maddened me! I could not bear to think that I had gained nothing.
Now you understand, and you will pardon me, Monsieur? If he cannot
produce you I am saved. Go then, leave me, I beg, without a moment's
delay."
He laughed derisively as he turned back his cowl and squared his
shoulders.
"All that is over!" he said, "over and done with, sweet! M. de Tavannes
is at this moment a prisoner in the Arsenal. On my way hither I fell in
with M. de Biron, and he told me. The Grand Master, who would have had
me join his company, had been all night at Marshal Tavannes' hotel, where
he had been detained longer than he expected. He stood pledged to
release Count Hannibal on his return, but at my request he consented to
hold him one hour, and to do also a little thing for me."
The glow of hope which had transfigured her face faded slowly.
"It will not help," she said, "if he find you here."
"He will not! Nor you!"
"How, Monsieur?"
"In a few minutes," he explained--he could not hide his exultation, "a
message will come from the Arsenal in the name of Tavannes, bidding the
monk he sent to you bring you to him. A spoken message, corroborated by
my presence, should suffice: 'Bid the monk who is now with
Mademoiselle,' it will run, 'bring her to me at the Arsenal, and let
four pikes guard them hither.' When I begged M. de Biron to do this, he
laughed. 'I can do better,' he said. 'They shall bring one of Count
Hannibal's gloves, which he left on my table. Always supposing my
rascals have done him no harm, which God forbid, for I am answerable.'"