There was, as the Marquis had promised, no man or woman present who was not vouched for by a noble name or by history. As the old man presented them, their names were oddly familiar to the ear, while each face looking at Loo seemed to be the face of a ghost looking out of a past which the world will never forget so long as history lives.
And here, again, was the subtle difference. They no longer talked to Loo, but stood apart and spoke among themselves in a hushed voice. Men made their bow to him and met his smile with grave and measuring eyes. Some made a little set speech, which might mean much or nothing. Others embarked on such a speech and paused—faltered, and passed on gulping something down in their throats.
Women made a deep reverence to him and glanced at him with parted lips and white faces—no coquetry in their eyes. They saw that he was young and good-looking; but they forgot that he might think the same of them. Then they passed on and grouped themselves together, as women do in moments of danger or emotion, their souls instinctively seeking the company of other souls tuned to catch a hundred passing vibrations of the heart-strings of which men remain in ignorance. They spoke together in lowered voices without daring, or desiring perhaps, to turn and look at him again.
“It only remains,” some one said, “for the Duchesse d’Angouléme to recognise his claim. A messenger has departed for Frohsdorf.”
And Barebone, looking at them, knew that there was a barrier between him and them which none could cast aside: a barrier erected in the past and based on the sure foundations of history.
“She is an old woman,” said Monsieur do Gemosac to any who spoke to him on this subject. “She is seventy-two, and fifty-eight of those years have been marked by greater misfortunes than ever fell to the lot of a woman. When she came out of prison she had no tears left, my friends. We cannot expect her to turn back willingly to the past now. But we know that in her heart she has never been sure that her brother died in the Temple. You know how many disappointments she has had. We must not awake her sleeping sorrow until all is ready. I shall make the journey to Frohsdorf—that I promise you. But to-night we have another task before us.”
“Yes—yes,” answered his listeners. “You are to open the locket. Where is it?—show it to us.”
And the locket which Captain Clubbe’s wife had given to Dormer Colville was handed from one to another. It was not of great value, but it was of gold with stones, long since discoloured, set in silver around it. It was crushed and misshapen.
“It has never been opened for twenty years,” they told each other. “It has been mislaid in an obscure village in England for nearly half a century.”
“The Vicomte de Castel Aunet—who is so clever a mechanician—has promised to bring his tools,” said Monsieur de Gemosac. “He will open it for us—even if he find it necessary to break the locket.”