“You are the governor of the province, monsieur, and in this matter you have in addition the Queen’s particular authority—nay, her commands are imposed upon you. Those commands, as interpreted by me, you will execute in the manner I have indicated.”
The Seneschal shrugged his shoulders, and chewed a second at his beard.
“It is an easy thing for you to tell me what to do. Tell me, rather, how to do it, how to overcome her opposition.”
“You are very sure of opposition—strangely sure, monsieur,” said Garnache, looking him between the eyes. “In any case, you have soldiers.”
“And so has she, and the strongest castle in southern France—to say nothing of the most cursed obstinacy in the world. What she says, she does.”
“And what the Queen says her loyal servants do,” was Garnache’s rejoinder, in a withering tone. “I think there is nothing more to be said, monsieur,” he added. “By this time to-morrow I shall expect to receive from you, here, the charge of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. A demain, donc, Monsieur le Seneschal.”
And with another bow the man from Paris drew himself erect, turned on his heel, and went jingling and creaking from the room.
The Lord Seneschal sank back in his chair, and wondered to himself whether to die might not prove an easy way out of the horrid situation into which chance and his ill-starred tenderness for the Dowager of Condillac had thrust him.
At his desk sat his secretary, who had been a witness of the interview, lost in wonder almost as great as the Seneschal’s own.
For an hour Tressan remained where he was, deep in thought and gnawing at his beard. Then with a sudden burst of passion, expressed in a round oath or two, he rose, and called for his horse that he might ride to Condillac.