Four days had passed since that dreadful night in the Rue des Mathurins—days the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live. No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that she was amongst the prisoners who were being tried in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to communicate with her had been in vain. This much, however, leaked out: that owing to the whispers that had got abroad—none knew how—the prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not of importance; but this in itself made the matter worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock court of justice—it could be called by no other name—every opportunity of veiling its real purpose. In this De Mouchy was managing the trial with great skill. The prisoners of no account—the scrivener's clerk, the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer—got the benefit of plea and quibble! God knows, I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal, pronounced loudly in the name of the King's mercy, with high-flown words about the love of the King for his people, led step by step to the real object for which the infamous triangle worked. Already the gossips were beginning to wag their tongues at the leniency shown. It was said in the cabarets and public places that the memory of the tailor of St. Antoine haunted the King, and that he and the Queen were, in secret, heretics. At the last acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared to parade the streets, with angry cries at being deprived of the hideous spectacle of an expiation. "Au feu, au feu! Death to the Christaudins!" I still seem to hear their voices.

And so the time was ripe for the law to claim its prey, for the shameless three to gather in their spoil, and for an evil, vindictive woman to accomplish her revenge. The King was at Fontainebleau, whither he had gone, accompanied by La Valentinois and the Court. The Queen was at St. Germain-en-Laye, and the Louvre—except for its guards—was deserted. On the morning of the fifth day, however, the Queen returned, and although she knew what had happened she summoned me before her to hear the story from my lips. I found her in her study with three or four of her ladies. Catherine looked pale and heavy-eyed, and there were hard lines about her mouth. It was said she had never smiled since the day of the masque. I for one am certain it was from that day her secretive nature took the dark and devious course that led her to be what she became; but now it was only the beginning.

I said what I had to say briefly, and when I was done the Queen looked up at me.

"Is this all?"

I bowed in silent response, and after a pause she continued:

"I know what you would ask. I have done my best. I have written to the King to pardon Mademoiselle de Paradis, as he forgave Madame de Rentigny. I wrote at once, four days ago." And then she flushed to her temples as she added: "Up to now there has been no answer. It is useless to go myself——"

Her voice almost broke, and I looked aside, only to meet Mademoiselle
Davila's eyes. They were swimming with tears.

It was now there arose an unusual bustle in the anteroom. The doors were thrown back, and in a loud voice the ushers announced the Duchess de Valentinois. For a moment Diane stood in the doorway, a little crowd behind her, and then, tall and stately, walked slowly up to the Queen and courtesied profoundly. Catherine remained frigidly still, as though oblivious of her presence, and amidst a dead silence Diane stood before the Queen, a faint smile playing on her lips, her eyelids drooped to cover the defiant fire of her glance. One might have counted ten as the two faced each other, and then Diane spoke:

"I have come, your Majesty, from the King."

Catherine's eyebrows arched, and a swift, lightning glance of hatred passed between the two. Then Diane's lids drooped again, and her soft, flute-like voice continued:

"The King kisses your Majesty's hands, and says there is much wind and rain at Fontainebleau, but that he has slain three boars and five stags."

"He has slain three boars and five stags," repeated the Queen in an even monotone, and turning to Madame de Montal, who stood behind her chair, she said bitterly: "Why does not somebody cry, 'God save the King!'?"

"All France cries that, your Majesty," said Diane. "And further, the King once again kisses your Majesty's hands, and has received your gracious letter in regard to Mademoiselle de Paradis." And now her voice hardened to steel, and she dropped the studied courtesy of her address. "That letter has been submitted to the council, and the King has decided to let the law take its course. God will not be insulted longer in this realm."

It is impossible to conceive the insolent malice that was thrown into La Valentinois' glance and voice, and the mockery of her bow, as she made this speech. And grey-haired Madame de Montal, gazing steadily at her, said:

"Madame, you speak to the Queen!"

"No, Montal," and Catherine rose, her face white as death, "you mistake; it is the Queen who speaks to me." And without so much as a glance in the direction of the Duchess she turned and left the apartment, followed by her ladies.

The favourite looked around her, a smile of triumph on her lips; but with the exception of myself the cabinet was empty, though a murmuring crowd filled the rooms without. It was then, and only then, she realised that the victory was not all hers, and felt the sting of the Parthian arrow shot by the Queen. Her cheeks burned red, and I saw the hand that held her fan tremble like a leaf in the wind. Then with an effort she recovered herself, and with another glance at me, full of superb disdain, swept from the room. As for me, my last hope had vanished, and I stood as in a dream, staring at the pattern on the carpet before me. How long I stood thus I do not know, but at last, from within the Queen's apartments, I heard someone weeping—heard even through the closed door and drawn curtains. It all but unmanned me; and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looking up saw De Lorgnac.

"Orrain," he said, "come with me."

There was that in his eyes and voice which could not be mistaken.

"What has happened?" I asked hoarsely, though I well knew what he meant.

"Come," he said, "be brave! You are a man, and as a man I tell you, you
need all your courage now. The Court is thrown open, and in an hour De
Mouchy delivers his sentence. The harlot of France is by his side——"
And he stopped, almost breaking down.

"Lorgnac, I am going there."

"It is useless. Le Brusquet is there. Come with me!"

But I turned on him fiercely. "I am going," I repeated, and, perhaps, he read what was in my heart, for he put his arm through mine.

"Come, then. I will come with you."

True and tried friend though he was I shook him off roughly, and hurried into the streets like a madman. How I reached the HÔtel de Ville I cannot tell! I seemed to have made the passage in darkness; but at last I found myself there, pressing through the ever-increasing crowd that thronged the entrance to the trial chamber; and finally, passing the doors, I took my stand in the gallery reserved for spectators.

With burning eyes I looked upon the scene beneath me. Camus had just concluded his evidence, and was bowing to the court, a smile on his traitor's face as he listened to some words of compliment addressed to him by De Mouchy. Simon, the man I wanted, was nowhere to be seen, though my eyes, fierce with hatred, searched for him everywhere. But on a seat beside the judge was La Valentinois herself, radiantly beautiful, now fluttering her fan, now sniffing daintily at her vinaigrette, as she bent her frosty glance on the prisoners. One was old FerriÈres. Like a dying man, he leaned back in a chair that had been provided for him, for his wounds left him no strength to stand. His eyes were closed. He seemed to have fainted, and was oblivious of what was going on around him, whilst death had already set its seal upon his haggard and drawn face. Mademoiselle stood by his side, a hand resting on his chair. For one brief second our eyes met, and she smiled at me—a brave smile—and I bent my head in sorrow, for I could not look. It needed not the cry of the ushers in the court for silence. Every tongue was still. There was not a whisper, not a movement, for all felt that the supreme moment had arrived. De Mouchy bent over his papers. I heard them rustling; and then La Valentinois, leaning forward, said something to him in a low voice. There was a word to an usher, and once more the insupportable silence.

In a little we heard the steady tramp of feet. Nearer and nearer the sound came. A side door in the body of the court was opened, and a third prisoner was brought in and placed before the judge. Craning forward I looked. It was De Ganache; but how changed from the once brilliant cavalier. His figure was stooped and bent, his once dark hair was white, his face wrinkled as that of an old man, and in his shifty, unsettled glance glared the fires of madness. He did not seem to realise where he was, but began to laugh vacantly, but the laugh died away to a frozen look as his gaze fixed itself on La Valentinois.

"Diane," he cried in a terrible voice as he stretched his arms out towards her, "it was for your sake!"

But she, his destroyer, scarce glanced at him from her place on the judgment seat.

"He is quite mad!" And with a musical laugh she leaned back, and picking out a comfit from a little jewelled box began to nibble at it daintily as De Ganache's hands fell helplessly to his sides.

And now De Mouchy spoke. "Monsieur De Ganache, do you recognise the prisoners there?"

De Ganache followed his glance; a shiver went through him, and as he looked a red flush mounted to his forehead. Never had I seen a man look so before, and, thank God! never after. Unspeakable shame and hopeless despair were sealed upon his face. His lips grew livid, and twice the question was repeated ere he forced himself to answer.

"Yes."

I held my breath and listened. What did this mean? FerriÈres still lay back in his semi-trance, oblivious of all things; but mademoiselle moved forward and looked at De Ganache, ineffable pity in her eyes. And now came the next question.

"They are known to you as Christaudins?"

One glance at mademoiselle and De Ganache shrank back; but her voice rang out clear and sweet, for she, with all of us, mistook the reason of De Ganache's terrible emotion.

"Deny it not, De Ganache! Be not afraid."

But with a cry De Ganache put his hands to his face and turned aside. A woman began to sob amongst the spectators, and someone dropped a sword with an angry clash on the parquet. Once more the strident voices of the ushers arose, and after a little silence was restored.

De Mouchy was about to put yet another question when La Valentinois interposed.

"It is enough," she said; "I but wanted to confront them. Let him have his reward."

De Mouchy smiled, and bending forward addressed De Ganache.

"Gaston de Ganache, Vicomte de Ganache and Les Barres, you stand convicted a heretic and traitor, and for crimes such as yours the laws of God and man have but one punishment. But bearing in mind the services you have rendered by denouncing your fellow-conspirators and discovering their secrets to the King's most trusty servants, Simon, Vidame d'Orrain, and myself, the King at the intercession of Madame the Duchess de Valentinois has in his gracious mercy spared your life on condition that you quit France within four and twenty hours. Monsieur, you are free."

As these astonishing words fell from the judge's lips—words that branded De Ganache with unutterable infamy—the miserable man looked around him like an animal at bay; and then, a madness coming upon him, he broke out into peal after peal of harsh, mirthless laughter—laughter that seemed to come from the grave and beyond; and, laughing thus, they led him away. When he was gone De Mouchy pointed to FerriÈres as he said to a warder:

"Arouse him!"

They dragged the fainting man to his feet, and he stood limply between two gaolers; and then the judge asked:

"Prisoners, is there anything you would like to say?"

And mademoiselle answered for both, in a low but distinct voice:

"Nothing. We confess we are of the true faith, and we are willing to die for it. As to our having conspired against the King—we are innocent!"

And as she spoke some strange idea must have passed through the wandering brain of FerriÈres. Half in delirium, he looked about him, and with a supreme effort, standing free of the warders, he called out in a loud, fever-strung voice:

"Vive le Roi!"

It was one of those moments when the sympathy of a crowd can be caught by a word. Small and mean-looking as he was there was something so forlorn and hopeless in the gallant cry of the doomed man that all hearts were touched. A low, responsive murmur broke from the spectators, and then with one voice they too shouted:

"Vive le Roi!"

They heard it outside—the multitude who thronged the stairways, the courtyards, and the Place de GrÈve. And they too yelled with brazen lungs, and the roar of their voices came to us through the open windows, with the sunbeams that lit the shadows of the vast and gloomy hall. Never did subjects hail their king in a moment more sad.

FerriÈres had sunk back in a crumpled heap, and mademoiselle was leaning over him in womanly sympathy; but the guards thrust her aside, and held up the dying man once more to hear, if he could, his sentence. The tumult sank away, and once more there was silence. La Valentinois sat still, watching the prisoners behind her fan; and then De Mouchy, in a speech that was dignified and impressive even to me who knew the unheard-of guilt of the man, passed the last sentence of the law. The sin of the prisoners was amply proved. It was against the King, and, he bent his head, against the Church of God. The King had already shown his mercy—all men had seen and felt it—but the wrath of God had shown itself in the disasters that had smitten the land, and France must be purged clean of the sin of heresy. As for the judge, the laws, and, in chief, the Edict of CompiÈgne, gave him no power to mitigate the punishment of wretches so guilty as these who stood now before him. And so Diane, Demoiselle de Paradis, and Jean, Sieur de FerriÈres, were condemned to be drawn two days hence on hurdles to the Place Maubert, there to suffer the greater torture and the less, and there to have their bodies consumed by fire, as Almighty God would hereafter consume their souls.

And then, amidst an awed hush, the blasphemer who sat upon the judgment seat made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoners, and, bending down, began slowly to gather up his papers.

As the terrible words fell from De Mouchy's lips I was for the moment overcome, and the immense hall seemed to swim before me, so that I had to support myself by holding to the railings of the gallery.

La Valentinois had risen, and was leaning forward looking hard at Diane, as if expecting some cry, some appeal for mercy; but at the last words of De Mouchy mademoiselle had bent her head in silent prayer, and then her calm, pure eyes met those of the wicked woman before her, and rested on her for a moment with a grave pity in them, as she said in a clear voice:

"Madame, God has already taken one of us beyond your reach." And she pointed to FerriÈres. "As for me, His mercy will come to me too, I pray; and may He forgive you as I, who am to die, forgive you now."

It was truth she spoke. A hand more powerful than aught earthly had rescued FerriÈres, and he was dead. He had passed as he stood there, held by the warders, and the lifeless figure, with its glazed eyes staring into the unknown, was only kept from falling by the supporting hands around it. Even De Mouchy paled; and La Valentinois, who had striven to meet mademoiselle's look with her cruel laugh, shrank back and covered her face with her hand. And now the guards closed around their prisoners, the living and the dead, and they passed from my sight.

In a moment the tension was relaxed, and a hundred voices were raised at once, discussing the sentence, the news of which had already gone forth; and outside the multitude began to hoot and groan and cheer.

A man seized me by the cloak. "A just sentence, was it not, monsieur?" he asked. And then went on: "A pity the old fox died; but it will be a good expiation, almost as good as that of Clinet and De Luns—cujus regio, ejus religio," he babbled on, airing his Latin; but I drove the fool from me with a curse, and wonder to this day if he ever knew how near he was to death.

La Valentinois had arisen, and, followed by De Mouchy and half a dozen others, was making her way to the exit, all parting before her as though she were the Queen. Now was my chance. Simon had escaped me for to-day; but De Mouchy—he at least was within my reach—and with my hand to my poniard I pressed down the steps of the gallery, but near the door was hemmed in by the crowd. Try as I would it was impossible to get through, and a barrier was put up, which made matters hopeless. There as I stood in impotent rage I saw over the heads of the crowd La Valentinois entering her coach. She was followed by De Mouchy. The guards closed around. There was a cheer, and they were gone. It was then that a cold hand touched my wrist, and a voice whispered in my ear:

"There are two days yet; do nothing rash!"

I turned swiftly, and saw Le Brusquet at my elbow, and behind him the tall figure of De Lorgnac; unknown to me he had followed me here.

"Come with us!" he said; and I made no answer, but did as I was bidden, and placing me between them we went back together to the Louvre. Once in Le Brusquet's apartments the reaction set in, and flinging myself in a chair I covered my face with my hands—for the first time in my life I had broken down utterly.

After a while I somewhat recovered myself. Lorgnac was standing with his back to me, looking out of the window, and Le Brusquet was by my side, a glass of cordial in his hand.

"Drink this," he said. "Remember there are two days yet; and God's arm is long."

Mechanically I drank, and as I held the glass in my hand Le Brusquet removed his cloak. In doing this something dropped, and stooping he picked it up. It was a packet of letters, tied with a red ribbon. With a glance of contempt at it he flung it on the table in front of De Lorgnac, who had joined us, saying as he did so:

"There are De Ganache's letters. I had almost forgotten them."

The packet had fallen on the table, almost under De Lorgnac's eyes. Half unconsciously he let his glance rest upon it, and then a strange expression came into his face, and holding up the letters, he asked Le Brusquet, with apparent unconcern:

"You have not looked at the writing, have you?"

"Not I! I dare swear 'tis some woman. Nothing else would be tied with red ribbon and scented with musk. Throw the thing away. It is too thick with memories of that traitor. My God! I did not think earth held so foul a villain."

But Lorgnac took no notice of his last words, only the hand holding the packet began to shake a little as he said slowly:

"As it happens, I know the writing well. It is a woman's hand———"

Both Le Brusquet and I turned on him, the same thought in our hearts.

"She!" I said, and half rising from my seat; but with an exclamation Le Brusquet snatched the packet from De Lorgnac's hand. In a moment the letters were opened, and he was reading them with feverish haste. There were four letters in all, and when he had done he looked at us, and there was the light of hope in his eyes.

"Speak, man!" And I gripped him by the arm. "I cannot bear this longer!"

"It is God's providence," he said solemnly as he grasped my hand. "Orrain, take heart! We win! Read these—and you too, Lorgnac! When you have read we must to the Queen at once."