These words, when he had made acquaintance with them downstairs, had seemed to the Marquis simple nonsense; they had conveyed to him nothing whatever, except a conviction that they could not be meant for his mother—unless she maintained some very cryptic correspondence of which he was ignorant. Yet during the short remainder of the meal a desire had burnt in him to read them again; for, after all, they must mean something. Now he had his wish.
The characters of the single word of the signature, clear and pointed, as large again as the others, were beginning to dance before his eyes. In them lay naturally the key to the rest. But it was impossible! The Princess was a prisoner, closely watched; how could she conceivably have got a letter out of the Temple? But argument on that score was futile, since here was such a letter. And to whom of the name of Château-Foix could she have desired to send a farewell message save to the girl who was soon to bear that name? “I make no doubt that you are married now . . . and finding, perhaps, the happiness that comes from doing right.” What did that mean?
And this reference to some one killed in September, a prisoner, who had “died a noble gentleman”? Gilbert’s hand shook. He was beginning to be unable to think. What, in God’s name, was this mystery? Feeling that he was on the brink of something unimaginable, he laid the letter down and lit yet another candle, as if that would make it easier to read between the lines. What was the sacrifice? Who was the dead man? It could not be himself . . . nor Louis . . .
God! had Lucienne then yet a third lover!
Horrible ideas began to flash before him. . . . He caught hold of the mantel-piece to steady himself. . . . Then all at once, with a rushing illumination, his brain cleared, and he saw everything.
Madame Elisabeth had been Lucienne’s confidante; had known, had sympathised with Louis. She had heard of the arrest of the young Royalist plotters; she had heard, in her prison, of their fate in the September massacres; she had never known that he, the dupe, had saved his cousin. And Louis was the “noble gentleman,” who had evidently died, to the Princess’ thinking, in a sort of odour of sanctity—Louis, the thief, the traitor! He laughed; the situation was full of humour. Louis as a martyr to honour!
But his brief contemptuous mirth was whirled away like a leaf in the blazing wind of fury which descended on him. What stung him beyond endurance was the thought that this meddlesome saint was praying that Lucienne might have strength to bear her married life with him. To be the subject of such a petition! . . . And his secret was common property, then; no doubt there were others who knew of his cousin’s perfidy, of his own disgrace. . . . For what woman had Louis fought De Bercy? Do not ask, had said the courtesan from whom he had stooped to beg the life of the betrayer. Why, even she knew!
He tore the letter in two, and flinging it blindly into the fire, watched it shrivel, and began to stride up and down the room sick with rage, and with one word of the expiring handwriting a-dance before his eyes. Sacrifice!
Sacrifice! That meant—the Princess meant—that they had parted. Sacrifice! What did the fatuous woman know? Evidently, from the whole tone of the letter, it had been no light thing with either of them, no passing fancy such as he had insisted on believing it on Lucienne’s part. Well, Madame Elisabeth might have been duped too. Since there had been so much between them, there might have been more. How should the Princess know? And that terrible thought, which had hitherto spared him, raised its snake-like head and looked him every moment a little nearer in the face. What exactly had been Louis’ relations with Lucienne?