The House of de Mailly

by Margaret Horton Potter

Claude de Mailly sent towards his wife a glance that cut her like a knife. "What do you know?" he asked.

"Everything."

"Tell me."

"No; I cannot do that. You must wait. Mme. de Châteauroux has been poisoned. I know how—by whom—but not why. By making me wait, you are killing her. Claude, you love her. I will save her life for you. Do you hear? I will save the woman you love! Come!"

Claude looked about him feverishly. "I love her!" he muttered. Then aloud he asked: "Who was it—that tried—to kill her?"

"Claude! Claude! Be still! Come with me!"

Claude de Mailly strode over to his wife's side and grasped one of her wrists so tightly that she bit her lips with pain.

"Answer me. Who was it? What do you know?"

Deborah cast at him a look which had in it a kind of despair, but which held neither fear nor dread. "You will be her murderer if you delay longer. Claude, the coma will come. We shall be helpless then. Let me go—I am going to the palace!"

Claude released her and stepped back. Something in the expression of her clear eyes had brought him boundless relief. There was no guilt in her face, none in her manner.