'You have beaten me, Messire,' Gilles said in a good-humoured whisper to Monseigneur the governor, as the latter bent one knee to the ground and kissed the gracious hand of the Valois Prince. 'Never was game so skilfully trapped! All my compliments, Messire. You are a born——' 'liar' he would have said, but checked himself just in time and used the smoother word—'diplomatist.'
'Your Highness will not grudge us our little ruse,' d'Inchy riposted under his breath with a suave smile. 'It is all for your glorification and the exaltation of our promised union with France.'
'Take care, Messire!' retorted Gilles, 'that your want of trust in me doth not receive the punishment it deserves.'
He had still the thought that he might run away. The only time in the whole course of his life that Gilles de Crohin had the desire to show a clean pair of heels to the enemy! If he could only have seen the slightest chance of getting away, he would have taken it—through door or window, up the chimney or the side of a house—any way, in fact, out of this abominable trap which these astute Flemings had so skilfully laid for him. And this, despite the fact that he had spied his arch-enemy, de Landas, at the far end of the room—de Landas, who was gazing on him, not only in mockery but also in triumph.
Nevertheless, Gilles was ready to turn his back even on de Landas—anything, anything, in fact, to get away; for the situation, besides being ludicrous, was tragic too, and desperate. One false move on his part, one unconsidered word, and the whole fabric of Madame la Reyne's schemes would totter to the ground. He seemed to see her now, with her gracious hand extended towards him and the tears streaming down her cheeks, while she said with solemn earnestness: 'When a prince of the house of Valois breaks his word, the shame of it bears upon us all!' He seemed to see himself with his hand upon the crosshilt of his sword, swearing by all that he held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business through to the end. Indeed, the end was in sight, and he felt like a soldier who has been left all alone to defend a citadel and ordered to hold it at all costs.
That citadel was the honour of France.
And the soldier-nature in him not only refused to give in, but at this supreme hour rejoiced in the task. He would hold on at all costs for the honour of Monsieur, his master; but, above all, for the honour of France. If contumely, disgrace or shame was to fall, in consequence of this gigantic hoax, then it must fall entirely on him—Gilles de Crohin, the penniless adventurer—not upon a Prince of the Royal House of France. Either he would be able to extricate himself from this desperate position with the mask still upon his face and Monsieur's secret still inviolate before these assembled Flemings, or the whole burden of knavery and imposture must fall upon him alone—the shameless rogue who had impersonated his master for some unavowable purpose, and perpetrated this impudent fraud for the sake of some paltry gain.
It only took him a few seconds thus to pass the whole situation, present and future, in a brief review before his mind. Having done it, he felt stronger and keener for the fight and ready for any eventuality. The honour of France!—and he left here to guard it! ... Ye gods! but he felt prouder than any king! Contumely, disgrace, exposure, an ignominious flight—mayhap a shameful death. Bah! what mattered anything so long as the honour of France and of her Royal House remained untarnished before the world?
Fortunately Jacqueline was not here! Perhaps she would not come! Perhaps these wily fools, when they had set their trap, had left her out of their reckoning. In which case, all might be well; the chances of exposure remained remote. A little more impudence, a brief half-hour still of this abominable rôle, and the curtain must fall at last upon the farcical tragedy and he, Gilles, would be free to become an honest man once more.
A little luck!! And, remember that he was a gambler, and staking his all upon the last throw!