Somehow she felt relieved. She would have hated to recapitulate that vulgar scene, the mutual recriminations, the insults, culminating in Her Majesty's contemptuous exit from the room. She could not now see her husband's face, for he had contrived to stand so as to allow the light from the candelabra to fall full upon her, whilst he himself, silhouetted against the light, remained in the shadow; but there was a certain dignified repose about the whole figure, the white, slender hand resting lightly on the bureau, the broad shoulders square and straight, suggesting physical strength, and the simple, somewhat sober style and cut of the clothes.
The room too appeared as a complete contrast to the other apartments of the palace of Versailles, where the mincing fancies of Watteau and the artificialities of Boucher had swept aside the nobler conceptions of Girardon and Mansard. It was quite plainly furnished, with straight-back chairs and hangings of dull gold, and the leather covering of the bureau gave ample signs of wear.
The turmoil in Lydie's heart subsided, yielding itself to peace in the midst of these peaceful surroundings. She was able to conquer the tremor of her voice, the twitch of her lips, and to swallow down the burning tears of humiliation which blinded her eyes and obscured her judgment.
"Then, milor, it will indeed be easier for me. You understand of what I am charged, the awful load of disgrace and shame which by my own folly I have placed upon my shoulders . . . you understand," and her voice, though steady, sunk to a whisper, "that I have proved unworthy of the confidence which the unfortunate Stuart prince, who was your friend, placed in me as well as in you?"
He did not reply, waiting for her to continue. Her head had drooped and a heavy tear fell from her sunken lids upon her hands. To him who loved her, and whom she had so deeply wronged, there was a strange yet painful joy in watching her cry.
"What Madame de Stainville said to-night is true," she added tonelessly. "I gave into Monsieur de Stainville's hands the map, with full marginal notes and description of the place where the Stuart prince is hiding; I also gave him a letter written and signed by me, addressed to Prince Charles Edward Stuart, begging him to trust implicitly his own royal person and that of his friends to the bearer of my note. That letter and the plan are even now in the hands of His Majesty, who purposes to accept the proposals of His Grace the Duke of Cumberland, and to sell the Stuart prince to his foes for the sum of fifteen million livres. And that is all true."
Knowing men, the men of her world, she fully expected that this confession of hers would cause her husband's just wrath to break through that barrier of courteous good-breeding and self-restraint, imposed on all men of honour when in the presence of women, and which she firmly believed had alone prevented him from interfering between herself and Irène. She would not have been astonished if he had stormed and raged, loudly accused and condemned her, nay!—she had heard of such things—if he had laid hands on her. But when, hearing nothing, she looked up, she saw that he had scarcely moved, only the hand which still rested on the secrétaire trembled a little. Perhaps her look made him conscious of that, for he withdrew it, and then seemed to pull himself together, and draw himself up, straight and rigid like a soldier on parade.
"Having told you this, milor," she resumed after a slight pause, "I should like to add that I am fully aware that in your eyes there can be no excuse possible for what I did, since in doing it I have sacrificed the life of a man who trusted us—you and me, milor—more even than he did France. He and his friends, by my act, will leave the shelter of their retreat, and will be delivered into the hands of those who cannot do aught, for political and self-protective reasons, but send them to the scaffold. You see, milor, I do not palliate my offence, nor do I seek your pardon—although I know that you will look on what I have done as a disgrace brought by your wife upon your name. I deserve no pardon, and I ask for none. But if there is no excuse for my conduct, at least do I owe you an explanation, and for this I crave your attention if you would care to listen."
"Nay, Madame, you do but jest," he rejoined, "you owe me nothing . . . not even an explanation."
"Yet you will listen?" she urged.