"And all," she mused after a while, speaking slowly and dreamily, "through the machinations of that extraordinary man, who is said to be a secret agent of Bonaparte's most powerful Minister."
"A man without a name!" added the Marquise, bitter scorn ringing through every word she spoke. "A meagre, insignificant creature, grey and colourless as his coat."
"But clever—and relentless," said the girl. "That Man in Grey is killing our hopes one by one."
"I loathe the brute!" ejaculated Madame fervently.
"Monsieur de Saint-Tropèze is dead," continued Constance in the same dreary, monotonous voice. "The Spaniard is a prisoner; Marie Vaillant a failure; Monseigneur an exile; and still that Man in Grey is allowed to live. Oh, it is monstrous!" she said, her whole body suddenly quivering with passion. "Monstrous and cowardly! Are there no men amongst us who will rid the King of such a pestilential foe?"
Mme. de Plélan started as if she had been struck. She stared at her daughter, trying to fathom all that was going on behind that smooth young brow and within the depths of those passion-filled eyes.
"You mean——?" she murmured.
The girl nodded. "Why not?" she retorted quite calmly.
"Oh, if we could!" replied Madame. "But he is so cautious, so wary—and lately he has always had two or three spies at his heels."
"There are ways——"