Gabrielle knew, or thought she knew, as surely as that night follows day, that the frayed string which held the sword was worn almost through, and that at any moment it might fall.
When on waking she saw Toinon fling back the heavy curtains of a morning to let in the light, she wondered that she should be alive and well. What object did her existence fulfil upon the earth? Why was she spared to crawl on aimlessly? Without husband, without children, without a friend in the world except this simple foster-sister, why did she linger thus? Surely her fitting place was in the fragrant earth, sheltered by waving grass from carking cares. The string was worn through, and yet it would not break. Day followed day, night followed night, nothing new occurred. She went her dismal way, and no one troubled her or seemed to know or care whether she were alive or dead, or well or dying. Algaé was still in the chateau, but made no sign. Toinon looked forth in vain for Jean Boulot. He neither wrote nor came; what if the letter had miscarried?
The conspirators were quiescent because they were in a quandary. There was no news of Clovis, or of what he was doing at Blois. His continued silence was incomprehensible. Had any hitch occurred in the negociations? Surely not, or he would have communicated with his brother. Kept in suspense, the latter knew not what course to adopt, and had much ado to endure the persistent girding of Algaé. The ex-governess found the situation quite intolerable, and was for grappling with it at all hazards, and at once. Clovis had made some muddle, which might place the heads of all of them in jeopardy. He was not a man to be despatched on any mission requiring delicacy or tact. What he was pleased to call his feelings (mere pusillanimity) had been too much considered. It should have been carried out to the end, if not actually in his presence, at least while he was dwelling in the chateau. What was to prevent him now, supposing that anything went wrong, from declaring that his brothers had acted entirely without his knowledge or consent? It was a grand mistake to have let him fly off alone, and the abbé, who plumed himself so much on his astuteness, and who was for ever finding fault with others, had been guilty of the biggest blunder of all.
Thus mademoiselle querulously droning with increasing fretfulness, and the wrath of her fellow-conspirator was kindled against her. In his heart he could admit that there had been a grave mistake, but was that a reason for bearing taunts from Algaé? She had been called in to act as conscience keeper to the marquis, and a pretty way she had carried out the task. Instead of bringing him round to active co-operation, she had only so far blinded him as to procure the tacit consent of convenient temporary absence. It had been a foolish plan, too, to raise money on the will, during the marquise's life. Better far to have announced her sudden and much-to-be-regretted demise, to have performed decorous obsequies, and then quietly have taken possession. But then Clovis was so untrustworthy. He was just the sort of provoking man to veer round suddenly, to place obstacles instead of adding all his weight to keep the wheel revolving. Then the visit of the Marplot Maréchale had so altered the complexion of affairs, and swallowed precious time. Were the marquise to succumb suddenly, the story of the unlucky cakes might be raked up again, unpleasant questions be asked. The schemers must fall back upon the idea of typhus, and that brought the scheme round in a circle to the original starting point--the providing of necessary funds in specie to tide over a period of months.
The complaints and jeremiads of Algaé overshot their mark, and so stirred the ire of the abbé that his active mind went off at a tangent, and his wits began to weave another pattern. Oh! if by some cunning device it were possible to circumvent that odious woman--alone to carry off the prize, leaving her and her weak-kneed admirer to gnash their teeth in vain. How sweet a vengeance--how savoury a triumph! Revolving the matter in a brain quickened to activity by spite, Pharamond made up his mind once more, at the eleventh hour, to attempt to carry the citadel. The mental and physical condition of the marquise was vastly different now from what it was when last he failed to storm the outworks. To mark her listless movements, her hopeless heaviness of gait, was to be assured that the ramparts were crumbling, that the walls were insufficiently manned. The armour of the warrior was worn into holes, through which it would surely be possible to insert an arrow. At all events it was worth trying, for success would mow down the hopes of Algaé, and thus punish her presumption and impertinence.
Having decided to try again, the abbé donned his most becoming suit of violet silk with gold embroidered buttonholes, arranged his hair with extreme nicety, and placed a patch close to his favourite dimple. This done, he surveyed himself in the mirror, contemplated with approval the harmonious contour of his leg, and sallied forth satisfied, armed cap-à-pie for conquest. Swiftly he sped up the stairs, and meeting Toinon on the landing, well-nigh choked that damsel with indignation by playfully chucking her chin. "It is too bad," he cried, "that so ripe a cherry should yet hang upon the bough. You must leave this dull house and seek more congenial society. There are sweethearts galore waiting for you beyond the frontier."
"Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?" gasped Toinon. "Whatever happens to us, my place is beside my mistress."
"Of course it is, you suspicious little fool!" laughed René. "If she travels, you will not wish to be left behind?"
If she travels! What new phase of the complication was this? It was distracting. Whatever it might be she was sure it boded injury to both the foster-sisters.
"Travel, poor soul!" the abigail observed, sourly. "It was a long journey the other day that you strove to send her on!"