On re-entering the chamber with the stronger light which he now brought, his eyes fell upon the drawn curtains of an alcove bed at the farther extremity; and approaching quickly, he pulled them back, shading the candle as well as he could, to prevent its glare from offending the eyes of the sick person.
But his precaution was in vain. Light and darkness had become the same to the pale inanimate form before him. De Blenau saw that, during the moment of his absence, being had passed away; and holding the light nearer to the bed, he thought he could trace, in the disfigured countenance that lay in ashy paleness upon the pillow, the features of the Grand Ecuyer’s Italian lute-player, Villa Grande.
He was engaged in examining them more attentively, when some one silently laid their hand upon his arm, and turning quickly round, he beheld Chavigni, while the countenance of the Miller appeared in the doorway, very little less pale than that of the dead man. De Blenau’s first impulse was to point to the dead man, while his eyes rested on the countenance of Chavigni, in which a slight degree of agitation showed itself for a moment, and then disappeared.
“So!” said the Statesman, regarding the lifeless body of Villa Grande, “he is dead, poor wretch!—Gone on that uncertain journey which lies before us all, like a land covered with a thick mist, whose paths, or whose termination, none of us can discover.—But to matters of life and moment,” he continued. “What do you here, Monsieur de Blenau?”
“I should suppose, Sir, that you are better acquainted with the object of my journey than I am myself,” replied the Count. “You must be well aware it was undertaken against my will.”
“You have mistaken me, Sir,” said Chavigni. “The end of your journey hither, I am well aware of. But how came you in this chamber? What do you with that paper which is in your hand? I expect a straightforward answer.”
“Did I give you any, Sir,” replied De Blenau, “my answer should be straightforward. But you ought to have known me better than so proudly to demand a reply, when you are unentitled to interrogate me. Being a prisoner, I must be guarded as such, though I tell you at once I have no intention of trying to escape; and being defenceless, you may take these papers from me, though they are material proofs of my innocence. However, I will rely upon your justice,—upon your honour,—that whatever charges be brought against me, the confession of this man may be opposed to them in my justification.”
“Monsieur de Blenau,” replied Chavigni, “I wish you would sometimes give me an excuse for doubting your sincerity; for then I could see the fate which is like to betide you, without regret. When you were liberated from the Bastille, I told you that the eye of an angry man was upon you, and warned you as a friend to avoid all cause for suspicion. The Minister has never forgotten you. You were the first who brought a shadow over his dominion—I hope, therefore, that your innocence can be proved beyond a doubt; for mercy or tenderness between you and the Cardinal are out of the question. Nevertheless, I cannot let you keep this paper, which belongs to the Council; but I will take care that any thing which it contains in your favour shall not be lost. In the mean while I shall be obliged to send you to Lyons; and Heaven speed you as safely out of this scrape as out of the last.”
“If perfect innocence of any crime towards the State can save me,” said De Blenau, following Chavigni into the outer room, “I have nothing to fear.”
“I hope it is so,” replied the Statesman. “And now,” he continued, turning to the Miller, “let me tell you, Master Godefroy, that you are highly culpable yourself, for leaving a State prisoner wholly without guard when you saw the Officer, in whose custody he was, in such a state as this. Make no excuses, Sir—it shall be remembered.”