The soldiers having obeyed and the oak door having closed upon them, Marguerite was now alone with the man whom she hated and loathed beyond every living thing on earth.
She wondered when he would begin to speak and why he had sent for her. But he seemed in no hurry to begin. Still shading his face with his hand, he was watching her with utmost attention: she, on the other hand, was looking through and beyond him, with contemptuous indifference, as if his presence here did not interest her in the least.
She would give him no opening for this conversation which he had sought and which she felt would prove either purposeless or else deeply wounding to her heart and to her pride. She sat, therefore, quite still with the flickering and yellow light fully illumining her delicate face, with its child-like curves, and delicate features, the noble, straight brow, the great blue eyes and halo of golden hair.
“My desire to see you here to-night, must seem strange to you, Lady Blakeney,” said Chauvelin at last.
Then, as she did not reply, he continued, speaking quite gently, almost deferentially:
“There are various matters of grave importance, which the events of the next twenty-four hours will reveal to your ladyship: and believe me that I am actuated by motives of pure friendship towards you in this my effort to mitigate the unpleasantness of such news as you might hear to-morrow perhaps, by giving you due warning of what its nature might be.”
She turned great questioning eyes upon him, and in their expression she tried to put all the contempt which she felt, all the bitterness, all the defiance and the pride.
He quietly shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah! I fear me,” he said, “that your ladyship, as usual doth me grievous wrong. It is but natural that you should misjudge me, yet believe me...”
“A truce on this foolery, M. Chauvelin,” she broke in, with sudden impatient vehemence, “pray leave your protestations of friendship and courtesy alone, there is no one here to hear them. I pray you proceed with what you have to say.”