Three days later, about sunset, the Duchesse de Trélan, her long dead predecessor’s rubies heavy, warm, and invisible about her neck, stood in the great Salle Verte, probably for the last time. Only one more day remained of her strange tenancy of Mirabel—for Camain had made no sign—and moreover nothing would have kept her longer now. She was on fire to get to Finistère . . . if it were possible.
Of the Abbé she had heard nothing—but she could expect to hear nothing, unless it were news of his arrest. No one had seemed perturbed at the non-appearance of the gardener; possibly no one knew of it. She could only hope that he had got the treasure away from Paris, for his coming had so profoundly affected her that she could not but wish him well. They would meet again, she supposed, in Brittany, if she ever got there—for, money apart (and that she had, the reward for Roland) how was she going to find a means to take her unmolested from Paris into the furthest fastnesses of the Royalist West?
A mellowed light between afternoon and evening was pouring in, softening the vista of green marble pillars and the gilt. Would she ever see the Salle Verte again after to-morrow? Much had happened there. The great apartment peopled itself for a space with that throng on her wedding night, one young and splendid figure outshining every other man there; it held again the later assemblies it had seen, the men of note that the Duchesse de Trélan had known, the soldiers, the diplomats, the courtiers, the grandes dames . . . all that scarlet-heeled, powdered, witty, gallant, vicious world, exquisite, debauched and courteous, everyone of whom, however reluctant or defiant, had come to the brink of the red torrent which flowed between that life and this, the torrent in which most of them had been swept away, with so many of the old landmarks, good or bad, as well. And for a moment Valentine found herself wondering what this historic room, still unhurt, unpillaged, might be destined to witness in the future. No de Trélan, at least, would ever tread its floor again.
Unless Gaston came back . . . some day. He might—he might! Stranger things had happened. Only it was certain that he would never come back under any conditions that involved a pact with the spoilers. No exile, no hardships, nothing that she could imagine would have changed that trait in him. . . .
A step, a heavy, hasty step, broke into her reverie—a step that had not been her way of late. It could only be one person’s. She turned, and saw M. Georges Camain advancing along the line of pillars towards her, wearing a face of thunder.
Valentine’s heart sank. She went a few paces to meet him, and he stayed his advance, and, beckoning to her in a manner quite devoid of his usual objectionable gallantry, walked back to the great hearth and took up by his stand by it. Evidently he felt the middle of so vast an apartment no place for a scene, and that there was going to be a scene was written on his whole demeanour.
“Well, Madame Vidal?” He threw the words at her like a challenge.
She met his look with composure, and answered, “Yes, Citizen Deputy.”
“Yes, Citizen Deputy,” he mimicked her angrily. “The Citizen Deputy wants to know what you have done with the gardener who was working here a few days ago?”
“I have done nothing with him, Citizen. He has not been here for the last three days.”