“The Duke of Orleans will receive a message from me within the hour!” said Winterset, as he made his way to the door. His face was black with rage and shame.
“I tol' you that I would not soil my hand with you,” answered the young man. “If you send a message no gentleman will bring it. Whoever shall bear it will receive a little beating from Francois.”
He stepped to Lady Mary's side. Her head was bent low, her face averted. She seemed to breathe with difficulty, and leaned heavily upon a chair. “Monseigneur,” she faltered in a half whisper, “can you—forgive me? It is a bitter—mistake-I have made. Forgive.”
“Forgive?” he answered, and his voice was as broken as hers; but he went on, more firmly: “It is—nothing—less than nothing. There is—only jus' one—in the—whole worl' who would not have treat' me the way that you treat' me. It is to her that I am goin' to make reparation. You know something, Henri? I am not goin' back only because the king forgive' me. I am goin' to please him; I am goin' to espouse mademoiselle, our cousin. My frien's, I ask your felicitations.”
“And the king does not compel him!” exclaimed young Henri.
“Henri, you want to fight me?” cried his brother sharply. “Don' you think the King of France is a wiser man than me?”
He offered his hand to Lady Mary. “Mademoiselle is fatigue'. Will she honor me?”
He walked with her to the door. Her hand fluttering faintly in his. From somewhere about the garments of one of them a little cloud of faded rose-leaves fell, and lay strewn on the floor behind them. He opened the door, and the lights shone on a multitude of eager faces turned toward it. There was a great hum of voices, and, over all, the fiddles wove a wandering air, a sweet French song of the voyageur.
He bowed very low, as, with fixed and glistening eyes, Lady Mary Carlisle, the Beauty of Bath, passed slowly by him and went out of the room.