Count Hannibal laughed grimly after his fashion, and doubtless thought that he had seen the last of the magistrate for that night. Great was his wrath, therefore, when, less than a minute later—and before Bigot had carved for him—the door opened, and the Provost appeared again. He slid in, and without giving the courage he had gained on the stairs time to cool, plunged into his trouble.
“It stands this way, M. le Comte,” he bleated. “If I put up the gibbets and a man is hanged, and you have letters from the King, ’tis a rogue the less, and no harm done. But if you have no letters from His Majesty, then it is on my shoulders they will put it, and ’twill be odd if they do not find a way to hang me to right him.”
Count Hannibal smiled grimly. “And your sister’s son?” he sneered. “And your girl who is white-faced for his sake, and may burn on the same bonfire with him? And—”
“Mercy! Mercy!” the wretched Provost cried. And he wrung his hands. “Lescot and Thuriot—”
“Perhaps we may hang Lescot and Thuriot—”
“But I see no way out,” the Provost babbled. “No way! No way!”
“I am going to show you one,” Tavannes retorted. “If the gibbets are not in place by sunrise, I shall hang you from this window. That is one way out; and you’ll be wise to take the other! For the rest and for your comfort, if I have no letters, it is not always to paper that the King commits his inmost heart.”
The magistrate bowed. He quaked, he doubted, but he had no choice.
“My lord,” he said, “I put myself in your hands. It shall be done, certainly it shall be done. But, but—” and shaking his head in foreboding, he turned to the door. At the last moment, when he was within a pace of it, the Countess rose impulsively to her feet. She called to him.
“M. le Prévôt, a minute, if you please,” she said. “There may be trouble to-morrow; your daughter may be in some peril. You will do well to send her to me. My lord”—and on the word her voice, uncertain before, grew full and steady—“will see that I am safe. And she will be safe with me.”