The cardinal watched him keenly. Once he had almost raised his hand to his chin, but he let it fall again, to the profound disappointment of the watcher in the clock.
“Be seated, M. de Nançay,” he said quietly; “it is not my custom to offer terms to traitors, but I have spoken of terms to you.”
“You are pleased to call your enemies traitors, monsignor,” the marquis remarked bitterly, “yet you are not the king.”
“I have no enemies but those of the state, monsieur,” Richelieu replied coolly. “I have sufficient evidence to send you to the Châtelet—ay, to the block, but it is possible that your life may be spared under certain conditions.”
For a moment there was a pause, and no sound but the throbbing of Catharine de’ Medici’s clock, though it seemed to Péron that the noise of his own heart-beats drowned that of the machinery over his head. Nançay was again sitting in his chair, leaning forward, his eyes on the floor. Opposite was Richelieu, as immovable as a statue and as cold and remorseless.
“Name your conditions,” said the marquis, at last, in a hoarse voice.
“They are simple,” replied the cardinal, deliberately; “there are three: First, you will make a full confession in the presence of witnesses; second, you will affirm the names upon that list, excepting Monsieur’s, who will make his terms with the king; third, you will sign this paper which establishes the innocence of François de Calvisson, late Marquis de Nançay, whose execution was due mainly to your accusations. On these terms the king will spare your life.”
M. de Nançay laughed harshly.
“Being a ruined man, I should doubtless be harmless, M. le Cardinal,” he said scornfully. “You offer terms which no one but a madman would accept.”
The cardinal leaned back in his chair.