"So bold, so presumptuous," he went on, "that it is hard to find words at all. But you forgive me in advance?"
At that she smiled a little. She did not think there would be much need for pardon. Was there any question Apollo—Stephen La Mothe, that is—might not ask? She knew now why these ten days had been the happiest of her life.
"Yes, Monsieur La Mothe, you are forgiven beforehand."
"Then—is there any plot in Amboise against the King? From you a simple 'no' is enough. I ask no proof, a simple word, nothing more."
Unconsciously he had forced a pleading into his voice, an urging, as if it was not so much the truth he sought as a denial at all costs; but as she turned in her chair, rising as she turned so that she looked down upon him, he broke off. It would have taken a much bolder man than Stephen La Mothe to have maintained his covert accusation—and what else was it?—in the face of the angry surprise which needed no expression in words.
"Was that your question? You have spied upon us all these days—suspected us—accused us in your thoughts? You have pretended friendship, devotion—God knows what monstrous lie—and all the while you spied—spied. But you shall have your answer in your single word. No, Monsieur La Mothe; such women as I am do not plot against their King, nor teach sons to revolt against their fathers."
"Mademoiselle——" he began.
But not even the scornful indignation vouchsafed him a second glance as she swept past him without a word. At the door she paused and, half turning, looked back across her shoulder, a spot of scarlet on either cheek.
"I had forgotten my message. I had already told Jean Saxe, in case I failed to find you. The Dauphin bids you join him at the Burnt Mill at three o'clock; but if it were not that the Dauphin's word is a command, even to you I would say be otherwise engaged, Monsieur La Mothe, since I must be of the party."
"But, Mademoiselle——"