He found workmen busy in opening a doorway which should give access to the children's wing from the bedroom of the marquise, and a locksmith changing the lock of the postern which gave upon the garden moat.
So that pleasaunce was to be denied henceforth to the group which composed the enemy? How would Clovis take this move? A scandal, forsooth! Was she not causing one herself by so ostentatiously raising barriers and employing workmen who would chatter? It was evidently her intention to occupy the long saloon, the boudoir adjoining, the bedroom that looked on the yard, and the children's wing, with the moat garden for outdoor recreation, leaving the rest of the premises to the family. If they were never to see or speak with her, how could they prosecute their plans? The masters who doubtless would be summoned from Blois to teach the young idea would certainly detect something unusual, and they too would be sure to gossip. And what of the servants? They were trustworthy enough, since they had for the most part been engaged by the abbé himself, as representing the Marquis de Gange, and Gabrielle had never thought of interfering. But the best of servants have tongues, and when the neighbours should flit over from Montbazon (which they were certain to do shortly) coachman would confide in coachman, and lacquey in lacquey, and old Madame de Vaux would hear all about it and spread the news like wildfire. All Touraine would believe that the Marquise de Gange was a prisoner in her own chateau; the mob who were fond of her would rise, and there would be a pretty pother! What a pity she was not indeed a prisoner, hedged round with subtle precautions such as the abbé could so readily invent!
When he revolved this point, he sighed. No. That plan was not feasible for many reasons, at least for the present. This was not the moment for coercion but for wheedling. Yet, he reflected, it might be as well, as chance arose, to complete the ring of servants. How very provoking it was that things should run so agley! Mademoiselle, instead of proving useful, seemed only likely to give rise to complications. Her reappearance had already produced a disastrous effect, for what was the use of setting her to manage the marquis's conscience if his wife could retire out of reach? As matters stood, to drag her thence by violence would never do, for shilly-shally Clovis would turn restive. If only he could be induced to go away for a time with his troublesome conscience to pay a visit to the prophet at Spa--but there again arose a difficulty. His presence was necessary here, for if that will was to be cancelled and another made, it was he who ostensibly must manage it.
A council of war! determined Pharamond at last. Valuable time is being wasted. We must combine and resolve upon a plan of campaign which must be carried without flinching to the end.
Having arrived at this conclusion, he turned briskly round and went with rapid steps in search of his allies.
Presently, mademoiselle, the chevalier, and the abbé found themselves sitting round a table in the small sanctum the latter had made his own--a cosy little chamber, panelled in dark oak with heavy double-doors--and the host took up his parable and spake,
"Mademoiselle Brunelle is probably aware," he began, in his low sweet voice, "that she was not summoned here for her charming society alone. We have long known each other's views and wishes, and have arrived at a consciousness that without mutual assistance our desires are unattainable. Fortunately they do not clash; on the contrary, although different, they run amicably side by side. So fortunate! It will be best, will it not, if I review them?
"Mademoiselle Brunelle has developed a fancy to wear a coronet. The said coronet would prove a paltry bauble unless handsomely gilt and jewelled. The gold and jewels are unluckily in possession of a lady who at present holds the coronet, and who has no intention of resigning either the one or the other. She must be made to give up both--how?"
There was a pause, during which the chevalier blinked uneasily. The abbé had succeeded in drawing one brother at least well under his thumb. Like a hound, poor sodden Phebus gazed constantly into the eyes of Pharamond, seeking his orders there. There was a germ of an idea within the breast of each, which none cared to drag into the light.
"Abbé," remarked mademoiselle, curtly. "As usual, you beat about the bush. There is none to overhear. What you would suggest, state plainly."