“Will I?” gasped Tressan, scarce daring to believe his own ears, his eyes staring with a look that was almost one of vacancy. “Madame well knows how readily.”
“Oho?” crowed Garnache, who had been observing madame’s face. “She knows? Then do so, monsieur; and on that condition I will forget your indiscretions here. I pledge you my word that you shall not be called to further account for the lives that have been lost through your treachery and want of loyalty, provided that of your own free will you lay down your Seneschalship of Dauphiny—an office which I cannot consent to see you filling hereafter.”
Tressan stared from the Dowager to Garnache and back to the Dowager. She stood there as if Garnache’s words had turned her into marble, bereft of speech through very rage. And then the door opened, and Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye entered, followed closely by Fortunio.
At sight of Garnache she stood still, set her hand on her heart, and uttered a low cry. Was it indeed Garnache she saw—Garnache, her brave knight-errant? He looked no longer as he had looked during those days when he had been her gaoler; but he looked as she liked to think of him since she had accounted him dead. He advanced to meet her, a smile in his eyes that had something wistful in it. He held out both hands to her, and she took them, and there, under the eyes of all, before he could snatch them away, she had stooped and kissed them, whilst a murmur of “Thank God! Thank God!” escaped from her lips to heaven.
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!” he remonstrated, when it was too late to stay her. “You must not; it is not seemly in me to allow it.”
He saw in the act no more than an expression of the gratitude for what he had done to serve her, and for the risk in which his life had been so willingly placed in that service. Under the suasion of his words she grew calm again; then, suddenly, a fear stirred her once more in that place where she had known naught but fears.
“Why are you here, monsieur? You have come into danger again?”
“No, no,” he laughed. “These are my own men, at least for the time being. I am come in power this time, to administer justice. What shall be done with this lady, mademoiselle?” he asked; and knowing well the merciful sweetness of the girl’s soul, he added, “Speak, now. Her fate shall rest in your hands.”
Valerie looked at her enemy, and then her eyes strayed round the room and took stock of the men standing there in silence, of the Abbot who still remained at the table-head, a pale, scarce-interested spectator of this odd scene.
The change had come so abruptly. A few minutes ago she had been still a prisoner, suffering tortures at having heard that Marius was to return that day, and that, willy-nilly, she must wed him now. And now she was free it seemed: her champion was returned in power, and he stood bidding her decide the fate of her late oppressors.