“Vibrac! Vibrac! It is I—Marcilly!”
We two but glanced at each other, a guilty shrinking glance. Then springing forward, I took Marie by the arm, and almost dragged her across the room to where a curtained archway separated my study from a dressing-room.
“In there! Quick!” I whispered; “open the door beyond, and go out by the private way; I will stop him here.”
She fled through the passage, and letting the curtain fall I walked up to the door with a trembling heart, and drew back the bolt, to find Marcilly before me, with Badehorn standing behind him, a look of alarm in his face.
“You! In Paris!” I exclaimed.
“Not by my own will,” he laughed grimly; “but, thanks to this dress, I am still safe,” and then for the first time I noticed that he was clad in the black and yellow of Guise.
“Let no one interrupt us, Badehorn,” I said; and with an affected cordiality—I seemed to learn without effort to play the hypocrite—I took Marcilly’s arm and drew him within whilst he continued talking.
“I had this dress ready for an emergency, and actually helped to batter in my own doors. Then seeing a chance of getting away I slipped up here, where I knew I would be safe for an hour or so,” and with these words he flung himself into the chair near the window, and began playing with the glove I had left on the table.
Sick at heart as I was with the fear that he would recognize the glove, I could not help, even then, noticing the extraordinary resemblance that he bore to the Prince of Condé, the secret chief of our conspiracy, a resemblance that had given Marcilly the nickname of “The Shadow of Condé.” And as I stared at him he glanced up at me, running his eyes over my gay court dress.
“You are safe as yet, I see,” he said, “and have time for these things,” and he flicked the glove from side to side.