"I must see you alone," she said. "I have that to tell you which you ought to hear without delay."
"Christine?" he asked.
Elisabeth nodded, and then as the Count turned and led her away, the dwarf came from a dark corner where he had stood watching the Countess.
"This means mischief," he said, and went quickly down the corridor.
Many had looked for Mademoiselle de Liancourt at the castle that night, and marvelled that she was not present. Felix recognized only too well that her absence was unfavorable to him, and, if necessary, would certainly have used force to bring her to the castle had he known where to find her.
But for the promise given to Herrick, it is doubtful whether Christine would have remained in her hiding-place to-day. Her uncle had been very good to her; had loved her, perhaps, more than he had loved any one else in the world; had listened to her pleading when none else dared approach him, and many a man had her to thank for saving him from the Duke's anger. Christine's heart was heavy because she could not pay her last respects to the dead, and there was rage, too, in her soul that Felix had dared to take some marred corpse and bury it in pomp and state, declaring it to be Maurice's body. She longed to rush out into the street and proclaim his treachery to every passer-by.
To-night Christine stood by the open window of her room deep in thought, yet attentive to any sound in the garden below. Many things might have happened to-day, and Jean might bring her news at any moment. The tolling of the great bell at St. Etienne had ceased long ago, only the faint music of the carillon wove itself into her thoughts. She glanced back into the room where Lucille sat bending over a book. The girl had been with her ever since Countess Elisabeth had gone out. Christine had thought nothing of this fact at first, but when Lucille so persistently stayed with her, following her if she went from one room to another, she began to wonder if the girl were not carrying out some instructions she had received. Christine felt that there had not been a true ring about the Countess's welcome the other night, and since then there had been many signs of uncertainty and effort in her conversation and in her actions.
"Are not your eyes weary of reading, Lucille?" Christine asked suddenly.
"No," answered the girl, looking up; "but I would rather talk."
"Talk! Of what? Prisons and death?"