Again the camériste, too debased in her terror for resentment, cried out:
“No, no—mistress—listen to me: it was one—his Highness’s own favourite—he advised it.”
“He? Who?”
Fanchette writhed.
“My father’s friend? Who? I will know.”
“M. la Coque.”
“La Coque! that painted coxcomb!” Amazed, for all her scorn, the girl sat a moment dumbfounded. There was revealed here a knowledge, a conspiracy, she had never suspected.
Fanchette, frantic, once she had betrayed her lover, to exonerate him, went on half coherently:
“He—he is devoted to your Highness’s interests; he—he only wanted to save your Highness the consequences of a fatal step. It was our tr—true regard for your Highness that made us conspire to open your eyes to the real character of an adventurer.”
“To open my eyes—by a wicked lie!”