There was no reply. He shook the door, but it was locked within, and resisted his frantic efforts to break it open.
‘By the ante-chamber!’ said Henri, pointing to the open door by which Louise had arrived. François comprehended the direction, although rage had almost mastered his senses. Rapidly the brothers entered, and, passing through the apartment of Louise’s captivity, found the entrance communicating with Marie’s boudoir unfastened. Flinging it open, they rushed into the room.
Marie de Brinvilliers was standing by the fireplace; pale, but calm. By the secret door, which he held open, listening to the steps and voices in the court, stood Sainte-Croix, his sword drawn, his teeth set—a desperate man at bay.
François d’Aubray strode across the room, and with his open hand struck his sister on the face, hissing through his clenched teeth, ‘Fiend!’
Marie uttered no cry, made no motion, though Gaudin, with a terrible oath, sprang forward, and would have run François through the body had not a sign from the Marchioness restrained him.
‘You—you—Sainte-Croix!’ cried Henri, crossing swords immediately with the other, as his brother, stopping short in his progress towards him, reeled, and stumbled against the chimney-piece.
‘Look to your brother,’ said Sainte-Croix, as he put by the furious thrusts of Henri—‘and to yourself,’ he muttered, as with a sudden expert wrench he disarmed him.
Marie crossed to Sainte-Croix. ‘It works!’ she whispered.
‘Henri!’ gasped François, as the froth gathered round his leaden lips, and the cold sweat rose in thick beads upon his forehead, ‘what is this?—Give me some water.’
He made a spring at a glass vase that stood on a bracket near him filled with water; but, as if blinded at the instant, missed his mark, and fell heavily on the floor. His brother raised his arm, and on letting it go sank passively by his side.