MY FRIEND,—Amid all the anguish and all the dreams of this last night, which separates me from you, perhaps forever, the most terrible thought which has torn my heart is this:—
It may be that, in carrying out the momentous and formidable duty which you are about to undertake with such brave heart, you may come in contact, nay, even in conflict, with the king. It may be that the unforeseen issue of your struggle will force you to hate the king, or even incite you to visit your wrath upon him.
Gabriel, I do not yet know if he is my father, but I do know that he has until now cherished me as his child. The mere dread of your vengeance makes me shudder while I write, and its accomplishment would be my death-blow.
And yet the duty which depends upon my own birth may perhaps compel me to think as you do; perhaps I, like you, may have to avenge him whom I shall hereafter know as my father upon him who has hitherto been a father to me,—frightful thought!
But while doubt and darkness still hide the solution of this terrible enigma from my sight, while I am still ignorant on which side my hatred belongs and on which my love, Gabriel, I implore you,—and if you have loved me, you will obey me, Gabriel,—respect the person of the king.
I can reason now, without passion at least, if not without emotion; and I feel, yes, I am sure, that it is not for man to punish man, but for God.
So, dear friend, whatever happens, do not try to take from the hands of God the prerogative of chastisement, even to strike a criminal.
If he whom I have until now called my father is guilty, and being only human, he may be, do not be his judge, far less his executioner. Have no fear; the Lord will judge him, and the Lord will avenge you more terribly than you could do yourself. Leave your cause fearlessly to His justice.
Unless God makes you the involuntary and, in some sort, fatal instrument of His pitiless justice; unless He makes use of your hand in your own despite; unless you strike the blow unwillingly and without wishing it,—Gabriel, do not constitute yourself his judge, and above all things do not with your own hand carry out the sentence.
Do this for love of me, my friend. In mercy's name I ask it; and it is the last prayer and the last despairing cry to your heart from
DIANE DE CASTRO.
Gabriel read the letter twice from beginning to end; but meanwhile, André and the nurse could detect no sign of emotion on his pale face save the mournful smile which had become so familiar there.
When he had refolded Diane's letter and hidden it in his breast, he remained silent for a time, with bent head and in deep thought.
Then, as if awaking from a dream,—
"It is well," he said aloud. "The orders I have to give you, André, are not changed; and if, as I was saying, I do not soon return, whether you learn anything about me, or whether you do not hear my name mentioned, whatever happens or does not happen, remember my words,—this is what you are to do."
"I am listening, Monseigneur," said André, "and I will obey you in every detail; for I love you, and am your devoted servant."
"Madame de Castro," said Gabriel, "will be at Paris within a few days. Make arrangements to be informed of her arrival as soon as possible."
"It will be very easy to do that, Monseigneur."
"Go to her at once if you can," continued Gabriel, "and deliver this sealed package from me. Take especial care not to lose it, André, although it contains nothing of value to any one else,—a lady's veil, nothing more. But no matter! Do you yourself deliver this veil to her in person, and say to her—"
"What shall I say, Monseigneur?" asked André, seeing that his master was hesitating.