Lagardere interrupted him: "Monseigneur, he is going to say that that packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers—but there is more than that."
Louis of Orleans turned his steady gaze on Louis of Gonzague, and read little to comfort him in the twitching face of his life-long friend. "Break the seals, Louis," he commanded.
Lagardere spoke, exultingly: "Yes, break the seals and read your doom, assassin. The packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers, but still it contains the proof I ask. As Nevers lay dying in my arms, he dipped his finger in his blood and traced on the parchment the name of his murderer. Open the packet and see what name is there."
Now, while he was speaking, Gonzague began to tremble like a man that has the trembling sickness; but as Lagardere continued he seemed by a desperate effort to stiffen himself, and, moving slowly, unobserved by those present, who were for the most part busy with looking upon Lagardere, he neared a candelabrum. As Lagardere uttered his last command, Gonzague thrust the packet that he held into the flame of the candle, and in a moment the flame ran along the paper, lapping it and consuming it. The king and Lagardere both saw the despairing deed.
The king was the first to speak. "Louis!" he cried, and could say no more.
Gonzague dropped the burning paper from his fingers, and it fell in ashes upon the floor.
Lagardere lifted his sword in triumph. "The dead speaks! There was nothing written on that paper. His name was not there, but his own deed has set it there."
The eyes of all were fixed upon the face of Gonzague, and the face of Gonzague was an ugly sight to see. Hatred and despair struggled there for mastery—hatred and despair, and the hideous sense of hopeless, ignominious, public failure after a lifetime of triumphant crime.
"Louis!" cried the king again. "Louis! Assassin!"
In a moment Gonzague’s sword was unsheathed, and he leaped across the space that divided him from Lagardere, striking furiously for Lagardere’s heart. But Lagardere was ready for him, and, with a familiar trick of the fencing-schools, wrenched Gonzague’s weapon from his fingers and flung it to the floor. A dozen hands seized Gonzague—the hands of those that once had been proud to call themselves his friends.