And that great functionary, that man who, but a few moments before had boasted to himself, who had told himself proudly, that he was no assassin, sat on his horse revolving hurriedly within his mind whether he should not now become one. Now, ere another two or three moments had elapsed; now, ere the conveyance could advance another dozen yards upon its road. Revolving in his mind whether he should turn rein and rush at that carriage, thrusting his sword through the driver's heart and, ere he could help himself or cry for assistance--which would not be forthcoming!--through the heart of that white, sickly-looking man within. For, it could be done, he knew. Nothing could prevent him doing it, nothing could save either passenger or driver if he chose to do it. Nothing.
With the exception of that creeping creature who had glided from his sight into the darkness of the underwood, and who was probably far away by now, there was no living creature near. No living soul. And it was dark at last! One thrust at the man who had just saluted him, another at the other in the vehicle: the light extinguished and the chaise roulante thrown over on to its side as he, in his great strength could easily cause it to be--and--and--that was all! All that was needed. All! The Court was at supper: the menials busy attending on the Court. It could be done in a moment and he far away half an hour after. And none would ever know. That was all that was needed! Yet, was it--all? Would none ever know? Ah, God! would He not know? Would his own heart not know? Yes, always! Always! Always! He would have become a twofold murderer. And he was--a De Beaurepaire!
With a sound that, as it issued from his lips, might have been a curse--or a sob--he loosed his rein and dug his spurs into his horse and rode away from that carriage. Away to Paris to meet his confederates in the great plot; to tell them that they were betrayed; that the one man outside their own band who knew this secret was alive and had, must have, divulged it to the King. That this man was alive while he, their chief, had had the chance of slaying him, of silencing him for ever--and that he had let the chance pass.
"Yet," he muttered to himself, "also have I missed being a murderer. I have missed that. Thank God! And--and--I am a true De Beaurepaire still. One who has brought no blot upon the name, who has nought to blench at."
Meanwhile, the chaise roulante went on until it drew up at a side door of the château, and two lackeys sauntered down the stone steps to see what the business of its occupant was.
"Monsieur desires?" the first inquired, letting his eyes roll insolently, or, at least, indifferently--which in a menial is the same thing!--over the terribly ill appearance of the man inside and also over the shabby hired vehicle in which he arrived. "Monsieur desires?"
"To see His Majesty the King. At once. On a matter of life and death."
"To see His Majesty the King," the fellow repeated, while a faint smile spread over his face. Yet, even as it did so, the footman felt some wonderment creeping into his mind. For the tone of the new-comer's voice proclaimed that this was no common person; his white hand as it lay on the lower part of the window-frame was not white from ill-health alone: it testified that its owner was of gentle blood. Also, the look and bearing of the traveller spoke more plainly than silks and satins and laces would have done of who and what he might be.
"To see His Majesty the King," the man repeated again, while his fellow-servant stood by his side--"On a matter----"
"Valet!" the new-comer exclaimed now in a tone of command, "open the door and help me out. Stand not muttering there but do as I bid you, and then take my name to some chamberlain who will pass it on to His Majesty. It is known to him. He will see me."