. . . . . . .
O that I were with him i’ death’s gory fauld,
O had I but the iron on whilk hauds him sae cauld!”
—Lament for Lord Maxwell
Gilbert hurried through the streets with a sick heart. He dared not hasten overmuch, for fear of attracting attention, and the transit between the Manège and the Rue d'Antin seemed interminable. At last he stood before the house in which his cousin lodged. The entrance was unguarded, the concierge invisible, and Château-Foix slipped across the courtyard unnoticed. All was quiet, and he went rapidly up the stairs. The door of Louis’ bedroom stood wide, and so, concluding that apartment to be unoccupied, the Marquis knocked at the door of the sitting-room, which was shut. Receiving no answer, he turned the handle and went in. One glance was enough to show him what had happened.
The room was in the extreme of disorder. The drawers of the Boule cabinet against the wall had been wrenched open, and out of one or two dribbled odds and ends of all kinds. Across most of them, however, ran a strip of paper and a hasty seal. On the round table in the centre of the room was a china bowl of crimson roses, overturned and shattered, apparently by the sword which seemed to have been flung down on top of it, while the water, a damp patch in the sunlight, deepened the suggestive hue of the red English carpet. Gilbert recognised the costly weapon as his cousin’s; the naked steel—the scabbard lay upon the floor—shone through the red rose-petals like the menace of Fate across a flower-strewn existence.
The Marquis walked over to the cabinet. Had they found papers among its other contents? Something scrunched under his foot, and, stooping, he picked up a little miniature, broken across its laughing face. To the ring at the top was tied by a ribbon a curl of fair hair. With something between a sigh and a frown Gilbert slipped the broken gage, no frailer, perhaps, than its giver, into one of the half-open drawers, where a glance showed him that it might find suitable company. Ah well! better they should find things like these than papers. He turned as he did it at a sound behind him, and saw in the doorway the stricken face of Jasmin. The old man made a sort of rush at him, and stopped half-way, brought up by a respect too deep-rooted to be overthrown even at such a crisis.
“Pardon, Monsieur le Marquis,” he murmured brokenly. “Monsieur le Vicomte——”
“Is arrested?” asked Château-Foix with a great outward composure.
Jasmin nodded mutely, and two tears coursed slowly down his old cheeks.