But mercifully Lucienne either did not hear or did not understand. Twisting her hands together she burst out: “Gilbert was all that was generous and noble. Louis and I . . . we saw each other so often . . . we could not help it . . . when he came to the Tuileries, but we never, never meant to speak of it. Then one day . . . it was not Louis’ fault . . . it all came out . . . but he left me, he left me. . . . You do believe me, Madame! M. des Graves believed me. . . . I did try never to think of him . . . you do believe it?” The last note in her voice was ominous of the breaking point.
The Marquise had risen, and, withdrawn a little, stood looking frozenly down at the girl crouched on the floor. “I do not know what to believe,” she said at last. “Every one seems to have known of this—this disgraceful affair but myself.”
“But Gilbert did that to spare you!” cried the girl, flinging out imploring hands. “It was only to spare you—he told me so himself. He found out about Louis and me, and he gave me up . . . Don’t you see that it was to spare you—to spare us all, because he understood. . . .”
But the Marquise gave no sign, and after a minute or two of deadly silence Lucienne’s nerves gave way, and sinking to the floor she broke into sobs full of fragmentary entreaties in which Gilbert’s name was mingled, and out of which detached itself at last, in tortured and direct appeal: “Gilbert, Gilbert, if you were here you would explain. . . .”
Madame de Château-Foix’ hands clenched themselves. “Silence, girl! What right have you now to call on that saint in Paradise? After deceiving him, deceiving me, posing to Sir William and all the household as his widowed betrothed, you have the audacity to talk about explaining and understanding! Explain, indeed! It is a pity that Louis is not here to explain! I always——”
The sobbing girl flared up with extraordinary ardour. “You shall not say anything about Louis! You have always misjudged and belittled him—and yet he did what one man in a million would not have done—and did it for Gilbert’s sake. If any one was to blame it was I—not he . . . no, a thousand thousand times not he! He was no less noble hearted than Gilbert, no less self-sacrificing. . . . And if you knew, you would not be so cruel to me, for it is all over now . . . since he is dead.”
Between the fire of her beginning and the profound, hopeless conviction of her tone at the end, the Marquise’s wrath was stayed for a moment.
“What do you mean?” she ejaculated.
“Why, Louis was killed this morning. Did you not know?” asked Lucienne simply.
Madame de Château-Foix stared at her. “The girl is out of her mind,” she said slowly to herself.