The Princess hardly seemed to hear the latter portion of Maligny’s speech. “And so the King—that boy—has signed the warrant!” she said. “But Lorraine held the pen. But they dare not! They dare not! After Navarre he is the first Prince of the blood. And is that all you have to say? Oh! Take me to him!” And she looked imploringly at us.
“Madame,” began Maligny, but she broke in upon his speech.
“Wait! Let me think! I know you have nothing more to say except to urge me to desert my husband. I know you are going to repeat that. Your plans and politics will break my woman’s heart. Ah! I know he will die. Have ever the merciless shown mercy? He will die, I say; but I die with him. Now hear me, Monsieur le Vicomte—and all of you. I go to Orleans—Orleans—do you hear? And I leave in an hour’s time.”
She finished; her hands clenched, her cheeks white; but in the gray deep of her eyes such a mixture of rage, sorrow, irresolution, and despair as I hope never to see in a human glance again. The strain had been too much, and, highly as she spoke, I knew and felt that she would yet yield. It was the old story. It is not in a woman’s words, but in her eyes, that her heart lies.
As she stood there, silent and motionless, Marcilly leaned over the Vicomte’s shoulder, and whispered something. Then they both beckoned to Lanoy and Chandieu, and retired into the recess of the window, where they spoke in whispers, and, as I looked, I saw a smile on Lanoy’s dark face, a light in the Vicomte’s eyes—and a jealous anger came into my heart that I was not asked to share their confidences.
But here on the daïs, where through the open window the mellow sunlight fell on the rushes at our feet, and lit them up in gold and brown; where still we were partly in shadow, and partly in light, there was no word spoken, and the Princess stood, biting her lip and watching the four. So still was it one might have heard the fall of a silken glove.
Suddenly the falcon on Majolais’ wrist began to flutter its wings, and the sound, as it broke the stillness, brought the Princess to the moment. She turned to Coqueville and myself.
“Messieurs! You will excuse me—time presses.” With a slight bow to us, and a shrug of her shoulders in the direction of the four, she walked slowly down the hall, Yvonne de Mailly turning as she followed her, and throwing up the palms of her hands as if to say it was all over.
As the Princess passed the window, however, Lanoy and the Vicomte came up to her and spoke in low, rapid tones, Jean standing a little on one side playing with the hilt of his sword. What they said I could not catch, but they urged it again and again, and she put her hands to her face, exclaiming:
“No! No! I cannot—I cannot!”