"A lady?" Saint-Pierre's hand fell on his shoulder in a kindly touch. "Not old enough to be your mother, I'll wager! Don't fret, mon gars, I have been young myself," and with that La Mothe had to be content.
Motioning to La Mothe to precede him, Molembrais took up his position last of the three. Now that he was within its walls the indefinable terror of Valmy possessed him in spite of his recklessness. It was not that he repented, not that his purpose was less bitterly determined, not that he had grown coward or would have turned back had return been possible, but the chill of the shadows through which the path lay crept deeper and deeper. In part it was a dread of failure, in part the inexpressible revolt of nature against an inevitable sacrifice, in part the sinister suggestions inseparable from Valmy itself.
And how could he escape from that suggestiveness? There, where the denser gloom sloped from the roof across a paved courtyard, Guy's scaffold might have stood; through that doorway, dimly outlined against the greyness, Guy might have looked upon the light for the last time; these obscure, uncertain windows, blind eyes in the slowly waning night, might have seen the axe fall; down these cellar stairs might have been carried—but they had swung to the left into a narrow court, and before them were the King's lodgings. No! it was not that he repented, not that he had turned coward, but would fate and circumstances trick him of his revenge at the last?
There are some men whom the dread of failure chills to the heart when the crisis calls them, and Marc de Molembrais was one of them. He had no definite plan of either attack or escape. How could he have, when every angle of the stairs, every corridor, every room through which they passed was strange to him? But if he had no plan, he had a purpose firmly set in his determination, which neither gloom nor chill could check; from that purpose, that stern, stubborn justice of revenge, he never shrank, beyond it he never looked. Somehow he would get Louis of France into his grip, and somehow he would break to liberty. At the door of the King's ante-room Leslie met them, and their guide stepped aside: his work was done.
In silence Molembrais held up the signet. Instinctively he felt that neither bluster nor importunity would serve him now. Then he glanced aside at La Mothe. "We must see the King and at once," he almost whispered. His heart was beating to suffocation, and in his dread of failure he feared the excitement in his voice would betray him at the last.
"Where from?"
"Amboise."
Leslie nodded comprehendingly. That Paul Beaufoy should go and a stranger return was quite in keeping with the King's devious methods. "Give me your sword and then I will waken him. I think he expects you."
"My sword?" The request staggered him. He had relied upon his sword for the one thrust necessary, then to aid him in his escape, or at least that he might die fighting.
"Don't you know that no one approaches the King armed? not even I, not even Lessaix. There is nothing personal in it."