And as we rode close together, side by side, I told her every word, hiding nothing. My voice sounded hard and dry to my own ears, my eyes were burning, and when I had finished, she said, "Denise, I cannot believe M. de Clermont's story. I feel it is untrue. Even if it were true de Termes would never carry out the order about you. He is incapable of such baseness."
"There is always one way of escape, madame, and I am my father's daughter."
"And there is a God above, girl. Your father's daughter should never talk like that."
"Then why does He not hear my prayers?" I said, in impious forgetfulness. "Is heaven so far that our voices cannot reach there?"
And my dear old friend sighed deeply in answer.
We were to halt at Chalusset for the night, and here confirmation was received of the truth of de Clermont's story, for an equerry of the Vicomte's met us here with a letter to his wife in his own hand, in which he said that our message, the one we had sent from the Gartempe, had reached him, and that he was hastening forward himself to meet us. Then he went on to other matters, and his letter concluded with a postscript:
"M. Norreys is here with an order from the King, or, rather, from the Queen Mother. It is very unfortunate, but must be obeyed."
She first read the letter herself--we were sitting together in her apartment, in the one inn at Chalusset--and then she handed it to me with a request to read it aloud to her. I did so; but on coming to the postscript my voice faltered in spite of myself, and then she bent forward and kissed me.
"Denise, it will never be. Are you strong enough to do a brave thing?"
"I will try."