“I am. I myself was attempting to dispense with the questionable hospitality of the Red Chateau—good Lord!” striking his forehead.
“What's the matter?”
“Are you the mysterious prisoner of the chateau, the man they have been keeping at the end of the east corridor on the third floor?”
“Yes. And woe to the woman who kept me there! How came you there?”
Maurice, confident that something extraordinary was taking place, related in synopsis his adventures.
“And this cursed Englishman?”
“Will drain a bitter cup. Madame is playing with him.”
“And the king; is he dead?”
“He is dying.” Maurice's wonder grew. What part had this strange young man in this comedy, which was rapidly developing into a tragedy?
“And her Highness—her Royal Highness?” eagerly clutching Maurice by the arm; “and she?”