There was a moment of tense silence. Gilles could hear his own heart beating in his breast. He had of a truth ceased to feel and to think. The situation was so hopeless now, so stupendous, that it was beyond human power to grapple with. He hardly felt that he was alive; a kind of greyish veil had interposed itself between his eyes and that group of solemn Flemish worthies around him. And through that veil he could see their podgy faces, red and round, and grinning at him with great cavern-like mouths, and eyes that darted fierce flames upon him. Of a truth, he thought that he was going mad, had a wild desire to throw back his head and to laugh—laugh loudly and long; laugh for ever at the discomfiture of some fool who was standing there in his—Gilles de Crohin's—shoes; at that fool who had thought to carry through a long farce unchecked, and who presently would be unmasked by the very woman whom he loved, and driven forth under opprobrium and ignominy into an outer world, where he could never look an honest man in the face again.
Perhaps he would have laughed—for the muscles round his mouth were itching till they ached—only that, just then, in the very midst of the crowd below, he caught sight of de Landas' mocking glance—de Landas, who had been in the Council Room awhile ago, and who apparently had since mixed with the crowd for the sole purpose of witnessing his successful rival's discomfiture. This seemed to stiffen him suddenly, to drag him back from out that whirlpool of wild sensations wherein he was floundering, and which was bowling him along, straight to dementia.
'No, my friend Gilles!' he said to himself. 'Since you are to die dishonoured, at least die like a man. Not before all these people; not before that man who hates you, not before that woman who loves you, shall you flinch in the face of Destiny. You have played many ignoble parts these days; do not now play that of a coward!'
And he stood quietly there, still picturesque and magnificent, still defying Fate which had played him this last, desperate trick, while Monseigneur advanced to Jacqueline, took her hand and said aloud in measured tones of ceremony, so that every one there might hear:
'My dear Jacqueline, it is with inexpressible joy that mine old eyes behold this happy hour. Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, Prince of the House of France, hath asked your hand in marriage. We, your guardians, do but await your consent to this union which we had planned for the great good of our beloved country. Say the word, my dear Jacqueline, and I myself will proclaim to our poor, sorrowing people the joyful news that a Liberator hath come to them at last, and that the United Provinces of the Netherlands may look to him as their Sovereign Lord and King.'
Jacqueline had listened to Monseigneur's peroration with perfect composure. She stood then not ten paces away from Gilles—the only woman in the midst of all these men who were gambling with her destiny. Through her mask she was looking on Gilles, and on him only, feeling that the whole abyss of loathing, which filled her soul for him, would be conveyed to him through her look.
She had believed in him so completely, trusted him so implicitly, that now that she knew him to be both a liar and a cheat, she felt that the very well-spring of her love had turned to bitter hate. And hate in a strong and sensitive nature is at least as potent as love. What the mystery was wherewith he chose to surround himself, she did not know. What the object of the hideous comedy which he had played could be, she hardly cared. All that she knew was that he had cheated her and played her false, stolen her love from her to suit some political intrigue of which he held the threads—helped in any case in a hideous and clumsy deception which would leave her for ever shamed.
But now she knew just what she had to do. She might have unmasked the deception last night, told Monseigneur the truth and opened his eyes to the stupid fraud that was perpetrated upon him. What stopped her from doing that she did not know. Perhaps she still hoped that something would occur that would give a simple explanation of the difficult puzzle. Perhaps she thought that when she would be brought face to face with the man who was impersonating the Duc d'Anjou, that man would prove to be some low impostor, but not her knight—not the man who had held her in his arms and sworn that his love for her was as pure as that of the lark for the sun. And if, indeed, she had been so hideously deceived, if her idol prove to have not only feet of clay but heart of stone and soul of darkness, then she would unmask him, publicly, daringly, before the entire people of Cambray, humiliate him so utterly that his very name would become a by-word for all that was ignominious and base, and find some solace for her misery in the satisfaction of seeing him brought to shame.
Therefore Jacqueline had said nothing last night to Monseigneur—nothing this morning. When requested by her guardian to prepare for this day's ceremony, she had obeyed without a word. Now she listened to his speech until the end. After which, she said calmly:
'Like yourself, Monseigneur, I am covered with confusion at thought of the great honour which a Prince of the House of France will do to our poor country. I would wish, with your permission, to express my deep respect for him ere I place my hand in his.'