"I listen in fear and trembling, Gabriel."
Thereupon, Gabriel, in a breathless, quivering voice, told Madame de Castro the whole sombre story: of the king's reception of him, and how Henri had again reaffirmed his promise; the remonstrances which Madame de Poitiers and the constable had seemed to be making to him; of the night of feverish anguish that he had passed; of his second visit to the Châtelet, his descent into the bowels of the pestilence-laden prison, and the lugubrious narrative of Monsieur de Sazerac,—in short, everything.
Diane listened without interrupting him, without an exclamation or a movement, as mute and rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed in their sockets, and her very hair fairly standing on end.
There was a long pause when Gabriel had finished his gloomy story. Then Diane tried to speak, but could not, for her tongue refused to perform its office. Gabriel seemed to feel a dreadful species of pleasure as he observed her anguish and her terror. At last, she succeeded in ejaculating,—
"Mercy for the king!"
"Ah!" cried Gabriel, "do you ask for mercy for him? Then you, too, must judge him guilty! Mercy? Ah, your very appeal is a condemnation! Mercy? He deserves death, does he not?"
"Oh, I did not say that," replied Diane, in dismay.
"Indeed you did say it, in effect! I see that you agree with me, Diane. You think and feel as I do. But we come to different conclusions in accordance with the difference in our natures. The woman pleads for mercy, and the man demands justice!"
"Ah!" cried Diane, "rash, insane creature that I am! Why did I tempt you to come to the Louvre?"
As she said these words some one rapped softly at the door.