Her mind—though almost on the verge of madness—retained just one glimmer of reason. It answered "No! the pain has deeper roots, more mysterious, at present incomprehensible, and death-dealing in their tenacity."
Her husband thought that if he entrusted her with a letter for the Stuart prince, she might use that letter for treacherous ends. That was the reason of his refusal. He so hated, so despised her that his mind classed her as one of the most ignoble of her sex!
Well! Awhile ago, in the Queen's antechamber, Irène de Stainville had publicly accused her of selling her royal friend for gold. Most people there had believed Irène readily enough! That had hurt too, but not so much.
Then why this? Why these terrible thoughts which went hammering in her mind? whispers of peace to escape from this racking torture? peace that could only be found in death!
"Great God, am I going mad?"
Monsieur Achille had been accompanying Madame la Marquise on her way along the corridors; he was carrying a candelabrum, wherein four wax candles spluttered and flickered in the incessant draught. Lydie had been unconscious of the man's presence, but she had followed the light mechanically, her eyes fixed on the four yellowish flames which looked like mocking mouths that laughed, and emitted a trail of black smoke, foul as the pestilential breath of shame.
Arrived at the door of her own antechamber, she was met by one of her liveried servants, who told her that Monsieur le Duc d'Aumont was within and awaiting to see her. To her hastily put query, the man replied that Monsieur le Duc had arrived about half an hour ago, and, hearing that Madame la Marquise was closeted with milor, he had elected to wait.
This visit from her father at this hour of the night meant a grave crisis, of course. At once Lydie's mind flew back to the Stuart prince. She had almost forgotten him since she left her husband's room. It seemed as if the overwhelming misery of that silent and deadly indictment had weighed down all other thoughts, until they sank into complete insignificance.
Vaguely, too, she had the sensation that there was no immediate necessity for her to rack her overtired brain to-night on the subject of the Jacobite's fate. She had at least six clear days before her, before Le Levantin, which was to start on the dire expedition, could be ready to put to sea. There was Le Monarque, on the other hand, quite ready to sail within an hour of receiving her orders. And Captain Barre was an honest man, a gallant sailor; he would only be too willing to make top speed in order to circumvent a treacherous plot, which he would abhor if he knew of it.
True, Lydie had now no means of locating the fugitives exactly, but with a six days' start of Le Levantin this want of precise knowledge need not necessarily prove fatal. She could trust to her memory somewhat, for she had repeatedly studied and fingered the map; she could draw something approximate from memory, and Captain Barre's determination and enthusiasm would surely do the rest.