“‘I told you so.’”
Maximilan’s cheeks paled to the marble whiteness of his brow. He had just heard the answer to the one question, to the one hope, of all Querétaro.
“You, you mean Marquez?”
“Yes.” And then she told him, and seeing how stricken he was, her exasperation at his vain incapacity changed to pity for his breaking pride–which may be called his breaking heart.
“But mademoiselle, I gave my empire into his keeping,” he protested, as though such trust in a man of itself proved that man’s constancy. But the messenger, but Truth, would not recant.
“Then,” moaned the Emperor suddenly, “Marquez is not coming back?”
“Nor ever meant to, sire. Listen, Your Highness made him lieutenant of the Empire, and sent him to the capital for aid. Bien, he turned out the ministers. He broke into homes, and pillaged even the stanchest Imperialists. He heard that Puebla was besieged by a Liberal general, Porfirio Diaz, so 417instead of coming here, Marquez marches all his army down there. You will observe, sire, that he wanted the road kept open to Vera Cruz.”
“But why? Tell me!”
“Ma foi, to sell the capital more easily. In any case to be able to save himself.”
“Sell the capital?”