She could not repress a laugh.
“It seems, then, that you expected me,” she answered, accepting the proffered seat. “Perhaps you know why I have come.”
“Without presumption,” he replied, “I may be permitted to guess. Your charming daughter lives within half a league of this spot. You think of her day by day. You look on her picture at your château, which, by the way, is not too amusing a residence. You pine to embrace her. You fly on the wings of maternal love and tired post-horses. You arrive in due course, like a parcel. In short, here you are. Ah! what it is to have a mother’s heart!”
She appreciated and admired his coolness. The man had a certain diplomatic kind of courage about him, and was worth saving, after all. How must he have suffered, too, this poor Abbé, in his gloomy hiding-place, with the insufferable cooking that she could smell even here!
“Abbé,” she resumed, “I am serious, though you make me laugh. Listen. I did not come here to see my daughter, though I hope to embrace her this very night. More, I came to see you—to warn you that the sooner you leave this place the better. I know you too well to suppose you have not secured your retreat. Sound the alerte, my brave Abbé, and strike your tents without delay. Your plot has failed—the whole thing has exploded—and I have travelled night and day to save a kinsman, and, I believe, as far as his nature permits, a friend! There is nothing more to be said on the subject.”
Malletort was moved, but he would not show it any more than he would acknowledge this intelligence came upon him like a thunderclap. He fidgeted with some papers to hide his face for a moment, but looked up directly afterwards calm and clear as ever.
“I know—I know,” said he. “I was prepared for this—though, perhaps, not quite so soon. I might have been prepared too, for my cousin’s kindness and self-devotion. She has always been the noblest and bravest of women. Madame, you have by this as by many previous benefits, won my eternal gratitude. We shall be uninterrupted here, and cannot be overheard. Detail to me the information that has reached you in the exact words used. I wish to see if it tallies with mine.”
The Marquise related her interview with young Chateau-Guerrand, adding several corroborative facts she had learned in the capital, none of which were of much importance apart, though, when taken together, they afforded strong evidence that the British Government was alive to the machinations of the Abbé and his confederates.
“It is an utter rout,” concluded the Marquise, contemptuously; “and there is no honour, as far as I can see, to save. Best turn bridle out of the press, Abbé, like a defeated king in the old romances, put spurs to your horse, and never look over your shoulder on the field you have deserted!”
“Not quite so bad as that, madame,” replied he. “’Tis but a leak sprung as yet, and we may, perhaps, make shift to get safe into port after all. In the meantime, I need scarcely remain in such absolute concealment any longer. It must be known in London that I am here. Once more, madame, accept my heartfelt thanks. When you see her this evening, commend me humbly to your beautiful daughter and to her husband, my old friend, the Captain of Musketeers.”