"Monseigneur, your hand."
The regent held out his hand, but hearing a little dry cough, he understood that Dubois was becoming impatient, and he indicated to Gaston that the audience was over.
"Once more, monseigneur, watch over this young girl; she is beautiful, amiable and proud—one of those noble natures which we meet but seldom. Adieu, monseigneur, I go to find your secretary."
"And must I tell her that you are about to take a man's life?" asked the regent, making one more effort to restrain Gaston.
"Yes, monseigneur," said the chevalier; "but you will add that I do it to save France."
"Go then, monsieur," said the duke, opening a door which led into the garden, "and follow the directions I have given you."
"Wish me good fortune, monseigneur."
"The madman," thought the regent; "does he wish me to pray for success to his dagger's thrust? Ma foi, no!"
Gaston went out, the gravel, half-covered with snow, creaked under his feet—the regent watched him for some time from the window of the corridor—then, when he had lost sight of him—
"Well," said he, "each one must go his own way. Poor fellow!"