"Let me see him!" said Rose d'Albret.
Madame de Chazeul paused, and saw that, by mentioning the messenger, she had committed a mistake; for it was her object to represent the death of De Montigni as certain, and she was aware that her son had run on to that inference, much more rapidly than the man's own account might justify.
"No," she replied, "you shall not see him. I pledge my word that the information is true. Here is father Walter ready to do the same. Monsieur de Liancourt will tell you the like story. If you insult us by doubting our word, it does not become us, to take any trouble to convince you."
"Madam, I have been deceived in more than one thing already," replied Rose, bending her head gravely; "and consequently, I do not lend my mind easily to everything that is told me. Father Walter, I beseech you, by your duty to God, by your sacred calling, as you shall answer for it hereafter, to let me know, has this information truly arrived, and is it certain?"
"That it has arrived, is beyond doubt," answered the priest, "but in regard to the certainty or the particulars--not having spoken with the messenger myself--I cannot say anything."
Rose waved her hand. "Enough," she said, "enough; I will beseech you now to leave me.--Nay, I can endure no more to-night."
Madame de Chazeul was going to add something; but the priest laid his hand upon her arm, saying, "Nay, Madam, let us not press upon her hardly. Give her till to-morrow to think over it;" and he led the Marchioness away, leaving poor Rose to her meditations.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The moment the priest and the Marchioness de Chazeul were gone, Rose d'Albret cast herself down into her chair, and covered her eyes with her hands. She would fain have shut out every sight and sound, in order that she might bend the whole energies of her mind to contemplation of that one question--were the dreadful tidings she had heard, true or false? But the agitating beating of her heart, the whirling confusion of her brain, prevented her for a long time, from fixing her thoughts firmly upon all the different arguments for believing or disbelieving the tale that had been told her. All was wild, and vague, and indistinct. Apprehension at first was far more powerful than hope; and, though reason pointed out many improbabilities even in that part of the intelligence which, as the reader knows, was absolutely true, yet she still dreaded the worst, even while she resolved, if possible, to believe that all was false.
"Was it likely," she asked herself, "that so proud a prince as the Duke of Nemours, should risk his life in single combat against his own prisoner? Was it probable, that he, who had shown himself so haughty towards De Montigni as scarcely to return him an answer, should place himself in such a position as to be compelled to meet him in the field? Was it not likely, most likely, that such a tale should be invented by those who had already deceived her on other points, in order to lead her the more easily to the objects they desired? Was it not clear that it was so, from their refusal to produce the messenger? Was not, in short, anything asserted by Jacqueline de Chazeul, more likely to be false than true?"