“Remains,” said Guise briefly; “proceed.”
I knew I had that to tell which would give me the revenge for which I thirsted; but the words would not come. Something held me back, perhaps the last feeble effort of my good angel. It still fought within me, though the battle was lost; yet for a moment it seemed that it might prevail.
“Monseigneur!” I said, “it was arranged that the Bishop of Arles was to make certain statements which I was to corroborate if I could—nothing more!” The words seemed to give me relief. I had spoken of this to Marcilly. There was no betrayal here.
“That is so,” said Achon, “and it is as well that Richelieu remains to bear witness to what passes, especially as your friend Ponthieu has escaped, and my fools bungled over the letter we wanted,” and then, without more ado, he detailed briefly what we know, confining himself exactly to the facts, but skilfully bringing them home against Condé. When he had done, Guise turned to me.
“You bear witness to this as correct?”
“Monseigneur.”
“You have heard this, Monsieur de Richelieu?”
“I have, your Highness.” Something in the Carabinier’s voice made me glance at him; but his face was like stone.
There was a little silence, and then the duke said:
“He is a lost man—nothing can save Condé now.”