No! he did not tell her all that; the recollection of it all had still the power to make him laugh; was it not all a part and parcel of that great gamble for human lives wherein he had held the winning cards himself for so long?
“It is your turn now,” he had said even then to his bitter enemy.
“Yes!” Chauvelin had replied, “our turn at last. And you will not bend my fine English gentleman, we’ll break you yet, never fear.”
It was the thought of it all, of that hand to hand, will to will, spirit to spirit struggle that lighted up his haggard face even now, gave him a fresh zest for life, a desire to combat and to conquer in spite of all, in spite of the odds that had martyred his body but left the mind, the will, the power still unconquered.
He was pressing one of the papers into her hand, holding her fingers tightly in his, and compelling her gaze with the ardent excitement of his own.
“This first letter is for Ffoulkes,” he said. “It relates to the final measures for the safety of the Dauphin. They are my instructions to those members of the League who are in or near Paris at the present moment. Ffoulkes, I know, must be with you—he was not likely, God bless his loyalty, to let you come to Paris alone. Then give this letter to him, dear heart, at once, to-night, and tell him that it is my express command that he and the others shall act in minute accordance with my instructions.”
“But the Dauphin surely is safe now,” she urged. “Ffoulkes and the others are here in order to help you.”
“To help me, dear heart?” he interposed earnestly. “God alone can do that now, and such of my poor wits as these devils do not succeed in crushing out of me within the next ten days.”
Ten days!
“I have waited a week, until this hour when I could place this packet in your hands; another ten days should see the Dauphin out of France—after that, we shall see.”