As Ned descended the stairs, madame came suddenly upon him and, welcoming him with quite cordial effusion, drew him into a side room.
She hoped he was not fatigued after the late festivities. As for the members of her own household, they were one and all the victims of a migraine. (She here looked forth a moment, and issued a sharp order to some one to close a little door that led from the back hall into the garden.) Yes, all were enervated—overcome. Mademoiselle was in bed; Pamela was in bed; Mr Sherree-den was in bed. As for herself, no such desirable indulgence was possible. A ceaseless vigilance was entailed upon her. During such moments of relaxation as she permitted herself, she was constrained to wear a mask of gaiety over the shocking anxiety of her soul. She was surrounded by menace and intrigue. There was scarce one she could rely upon—only Mr Sherree-den, and he could little longer afford to be parted from his duties. There was not a soul, even, she could entrust at this time with a letter it was imperative should be conveyed abroad by a confident hand. She had no hesitation in informing monsieur of its direction. It was to monseigneur, the father of the young princess, at present sojourning in Brussels. It was to acquaint monseigneur of the pitiable anxiety of the refugees, and to beg him to order their return at once. But it would be necessary for the messenger to back up the substance of the letter by arguments deduced from a personal knowledge of the condition of the victims; and who, in all her forlorn state, could she find meet to so delicate a mission?
She wept; she clasped her hands convulsively; she apostrophised Heaven. Was this the brilliant, self-confident, rather aggressive chaperon of the night before? Ned listened in something like amazement. He could never have misdoubted the obvious suggestion of her lamentation. As to her sincerity, it is very possible he was completely duped. He was not at all in the plot against himself; and madame had been a notable actress from the days when, at eleven years old, she played the title part in Racine’s Iphigénie en Aulide.
“Ah, monsieur!” cried she; “but the joy, all troubles past, of welcoming in our land the amiable friend who should be the means to our returning thither!”
If now the idea of offering himself to the mission first began to take root in Ned’s mind, it was because his jealousy would not tolerate the thought that, failing him, another might be found to serve his mistress with a less questioning devotion. Still, he would not yet commit himself definitely to a course that not only—in the present state of continental ferment—entailed a certain personal risk, but entailed a risk that in the result might effectively separate him from that very fair lady it was his principal wish to serve in the matter. Moreover, it was certainly in his interest to ascertain if it was this same lady’s desire to be so served by him.
“When does madame wish this letter conveyed?” he said gravely, after some moments of deep pondering.
“Oh, indeed!” cried madame, “but varee soon—in two-tree days.”
“And the messenger is to be a sort of outrider to your party?”
“An outrider?—but, in truth. Yet, how far an outrider, shall depend upon his influence with monseigneur.”
Ned bowed.