"The King's face!" I cried, snatching at the straw he seemed to hold out.
He laughed cynically, smoothly. His thin face, his dark moustache, and whitening hair, gave him an air of indescribable keenness. "I am not the King," he said. "Besides, I am told you have killed as many as six men in duels. You owe the King, therefore, one life at least. You must pay it. There is no more to be said, M. de Berault," he continued coldly, turning away and beginning to collect some papers. "The law must take its course."
I thought he was about to nod to the lieutenant to withdraw me, and a chilling sweat broke out down my back. I saw the scaffold, I felt the cords. A moment, and it would be too late! "I have a favour to ask," I stammered desperately, "if your Eminence would give me a moment alone."
"To what end?" he answered, turning and eyeing me with cold disfavour. "I know you--your past--all. It can do no good, my friend."
"Nor harm!" I cried. "And I am a dying man, Monseigneur!"
"That is true," he said thoughtfully. Still he seemed to hesitate; and my heart beat fast. At last he looked at the lieutenant. "You may leave us," he said shortly. "Now," when the officer had withdrawn and left us alone, "what is it? Say what you have to say quickly. And above all, do not try to fool me, M. de Berault."
But his piercing eyes so disconcerted me that now I had my chance I could not find a word to say, and stood before him mute. I think this pleased him, for his face relaxed.
"Well?" he said at last. "Is that all?"
"The man is not dead," I muttered.
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "What of that?" he said. "That was not what you wanted to say to me."