And Achon laughed long and low to himself. What ran in his mind, what fancy moved him to a joy that chilled us, I know not; but the high chapel wall echoed back the mirthless chuckle, as though some fiend flitting above us shared in his secret thoughts, and rejoiced in his fearful gladness.
We looked at him in astonishment and amaze, but at last he put his thin hand to his breast as if to stay himself as he asked me:
“And have you nothing else to say, de Vibrac?”
“Is more wanted?” It was the Guise who spoke, with a touch of impatience.
“Ay! There is more, monseigneur,” and Achon again turned to me. “Do you remember, de Vibrac, that I told you before you had trouble there?” And his hand rested again over my heart as it had done for a moment at Larçon, and dropped on the instant as he continued: “Here is the clew that led me to read you. Here are the letters I promised you. Take them—but you have more to say, Vibrac. Am I not right?”
What hideous prescience possessed this man! My thoughts came thick and fast upon me, and, as I thought, his eyes seemed to read into my very brain. I tried to steady myself.
“You know I have more to say,” I said. “Are you a sorcerer?”
“No, monsieur; but a priest to whom secrets come. And they laugh, monsieur; they laugh at de Vibrac and the sport he has made for——” He stopped; but he had said enough. I would not have heard him if he had spoken more. The place, the hour, all before me was changed. I was once again listening to Marie’s mocking words; and all the horrors of the past were upon me. They laughed. Did they? I would turn their smiles to tears of blood; and then I spoke.
It was more than they expected to hear. My first words made even Guise start, and Achon’s lips, red as a wound, to pale to gray. But I was getting my revenge. I could not think of anything but that, and at last it was over, and I stood before them the basest of men.
Not a word did they say in interruption or comment; but when I had done they left me where I was, Richelieu still a pace or so from me, leaning on his sword and twisting his moustache with his hand. After a while—I know not how long it was, for my mind is almost a blank when I strive to recall those moments—they returned and said something to Richelieu, to which he answered simply with a bow.