“Do you know when Mlle. de Valois leaves?” I asked.
“The Duchess de Modena leaves at once for Italy to join her husband.”
“True,” I murmured, “she is no longer Mlle. de Valois,” and I followed him in silence. I was not, then, to see Louise again. There was no room in my heart for any other thought. I was crushed, hopeless. My guide opened the door into the audience-chamber which I knew so well. He stood aside and I entered. A glance showed me that the room was empty.
“The regent requests you to await him here, monsieur,” said the usher, and closed the door.
I sank into a chair, utterly weary and disheartened. Never, even at Poitiers, had my life appeared so barren and so fruitless. I felt as a shipwrecked man must feel who is left alone in the midst of a great waste of water, without a spar to cling to, without a hope of succor,—overwhelmed, impotent, a pigmy. I comprehended dimly that I had been struggling against a force greater than I had understood,—a force that had brushed me aside out of its path without seeing me,—a force against which my puny strength counted as less than nothing.
The opening of a door aroused me, and I arose as I saw the regent enter.
“Sit down, M. de Brancas,” he said, kindly, himself taking the large chair in which he always sat. “This is to be a friendly conference, I trust,” and he smiled at me, though, I fancied, sadly. “This is the first time I have seen you since you dashed out of the wood with Cartouche’s rascals at your heels, and I see that your wound is not yet well. Believe me, monsieur, I am not ungrateful for the valor you showed that night, and I appreciate and respect the feeling which sent you to my rescue.”
“’Twas what any gentleman would have done,” I said, simply, and that night seemed far away.
“’Twas what any gentleman would have tried to do, perhaps,” answered the regent, “but which few could have accomplished. Do not belittle yourself, M. de Brancas. I admire strong men who pause at nothing, even though they be against me. Few could have done what you have done since you have been in Paris.”
“And to what end?” I cried. “Everything that I have done, every hope that I have cherished, was blown into thin air this morning.”