Madame l'Intendante knew well enough to whom he referred--to la femme funeste et terrible--and shook her head sadly, while Baville continued:
"She bars all, blocks all, Alice," and he lowered his voice instinctively. "Alice, it is she who has lit this torch of rebellion through all Languedoc. Chamillart writes me that Louis has known nothing until now of what has been happening. She has kept him in ignorance until forced by my demand for a great army and the services of Montrevel to tell him."
"My God! What duplicity!"
"It is true. She holds him in the hollow of her hand, winds him round her finger as a child winds a silken thread. Will she grant concessions, do you think?"
"But, Nicole, listen. If she, Urbaine, lives, there may be still time. Montrevel is not yet here. His great army moves slowly. Time, still."
"For what?"
"Have you forgotten? Her real father--that friend of yours--Monsieur Ducaire--have you not often told me he was himself of their faith--a Huguenot?"
"Mon Dieu!" Baville exclaimed, "it is so. He was. Yet, again, what then?"
"If--if she does still live, and it could be communicated to them, they would perhaps spare her. Surely, among the old of those refugees--even among those who are now but elderly--there may be some who would remember her father, could recall this Monsieur Ducaire----"
She paused, alarmed at the strange effect of her words, for Baville's face had turned an ashen hue as she spoke. Almost it seemed to his wife as though his handsome features were convulsed with pain as he, repeating those words, whispered: