“It is true that I might risk the king’s displeasure by opposing your highness,” he said quietly, “but consider for one moment the situation. I am not in supreme command in this house. There is here a capitaine de quartier. I heard his voice on the stairs a moment since, and the place is full of soldiers. If you step out into that hall—if you attempt to go away—they will seize you, and it will be a public matter in five minutes.”
“But, mon Dieu!” cried the prince, in a faint voice, “what can I do? My brother will never forgive me. The cardinal will ruin me! They will know I am here, if I stay! Where is the advantage?”
“If your highness will think a moment, you will see,” Péron answered more calmly, as he saw the other’s absolute impotence in the face of a crisis. “If you remain quiet, no one need know your identity but Mademoiselle de Nançay and myself.”
Gaston peered at him eagerly; his face had grown pinched and not unlike the king’s when Louis was suffering from one of his seasons of ill health.
“How can I trust you, man?” he moaned fretfully. “I can trust no one; every one betrays me and every one suspects me, even my own brother!”
“Because you betray every one,” was on Péron’s lip; but he restrained himself, though, looking beyond Monsieur’s cowering figure, he saw the contempt and hatred on mademoiselle’s proud young face.
“You may trust me, your highness,” Péron replied quietly. “I pledge my honor that no man shall know you if you will stay in the room across the hall until daybreak, and then ride with me to Paris.”
Monsieur’s face, already white, turned the color of ashes.
“To Paris!” he cried, collapsing into a chair. “To monsignor?”
“To monsignor, your highness,” said Péron, grimly. “My orders are absolute.”