Madame Claude muttered something tearfully; something about Pavannes and the saints. I looked over Croisette's shoulder, and read the letter. It began abruptly without any term of address, and ran thus, "I have a mission in Paris, Mademoiselle, which admits of no delay, your mission, as well as my own—to see Pavannes. You have won his heart. It is yours, and I will bring it you, or his right hand in token that he has yielded up his claim to yours. And to this I pledge myself."
The thing bore no signature. It was written in some red fluid—blood perhaps—a mean and sorry trick! On the outside was scrawled a direction to Mademoiselle de Caylus. And the packet was sealed with the Vidame's crest, a wolf's head.
"The coward! the miserable coward!" Croisette cried. He was the first to read the meaning of the thing. And his eyes were full of tears—tears of rage.
For me I was angry exceedingly. My veins seemed full of fire, as I comprehended the mean cruelty which could thus torture a girl.
"Who delivered this?" I thundered. "Who gave it to Mademoiselle? How did it reach her hands? Speak, some one!"
A maid, whimpering in the background, said that Francis had given it to her to hand to Mademoiselle.
I ground my teeth together, while Marie, unbidden, left the room to seek Francis—and a stirrup leather. The Vidame had brought the note in his pocket no doubt, rightly expecting that he would not get an audience of my cousin. Returning to the gate alone he had seen his opportunity, and given the note to Francis, probably with a small fee to secure its transmission.
Croisette and I looked at one another, apprehending all this. "He will sleep at Cahors to-night," I said sullenly.
The lad shook his head and answered in a low voice, "I am afraid not. His horses are fresh. I think he will push on. He always travels quickly. And now you know—"
I nodded, understanding only too well.