“An intrigue is an intrigue,” said Fanchette, growing bolder as the other wavered. “If it is wrong, we look to high example to make it shameful to us. In the meantime one is powerless where one has given one’s heart away.”
“No doubt the blame is less yours than his,” said Isabella indistinctly.
“Ah!” said Fanchette—“if your Highness would only believe in the fondness of the intentions that actuated me. But since they are misunderstood, it is no good to dwell upon them. Only——”
“Only what, Fanchette?”
“Since our smallness, and envy, and painted coxcombry are not to your Highness’s taste, we had best retire, and leave you to your own devices. You will do what you will do; and I have done, in all disinterestedness, what I could. Perhaps you will believe me that, even while I was outraging my own feelings to try and safeguard your reputation, I was providing alternatively for the step from which I foresaw you would not be easily dissuaded.”
She spoke at last like an injured saint; but the venom in her heart, over that contumelious reference to her lover, was rankling and growing in bitter intensity as she recovered more and more her confidence.
“What step, Fanchette?” asked Isabella faintly.
The girl shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“Into the dark—that is all I can say—except that I know where someone is most likely to be found within the next few days.”
She knelt back, sniffing and mopping her eyes, while a silence of some minutes prevailed; and then a sad little voice came to her: