speak! Would that they would listen! Before many hours, death will be within these walls. Alas! it is given to me to avert it if they would but hear me.”
The astrologer slowly follows the steps of the Comte d’Auvergne and the Dominican, descending the stairs after them. They enter a suite of rooms on the ground floor of the palace. The monk had now thrown back his cowl and displayed a face yet young, but seamed and wrinkled with deep lines. His eyes are dull and bloodshot; his thin hair scarcely shades his projecting forehead. He stands in the centre of the apartment, silent, sullen, and preoccupied.
“What is your name?” asks the Count sternly, turning towards him.
“Jacques Clément,” is the short rejoinder.
“You say you are the bearer of letters to the King?”
“Yes,” replies he, “from Monsieur de Brienne and the President Harlay, now both prisoners in the Bastille. There is my passport; you see it is signed by Monsieur de Brienne.”
“Show me the President’s letter,” says D’Auvergne; “his writing is as familiar to me as my own. If you are a spy, you will meet with no mercy here,” and he measured him from head to foot with eyes full of doubt and suspicion.
The monk draws forth a parcel of unsealed letters, which the Count reads and examines.
“It is well,” he says. “These are proofs that you are a messenger from the King’s friends. But how did you, carrying such dangerous credentials, contrive to pass the gates of Paris? Answer me that, my father.”
“My habit protected me,” replies the monk, devoutly crossing himself, “our Blessed Lady gave me courage and address to escape from those Philistines. Once past the gates, I came here in company with Monsieur de la Guesle’s people.”