‘Monseigneur has handled a sword himself,’ I blurted out. The very room seemed to be growing darker, the air colder. I was never nearer fear in my life.
‘Yes?’ he said, smiling delicately. ‘And so—?’
‘Will not be too hard on the failings of a poor gentleman.’
‘He shall suffer no more than a rich one,’ he replied suavely as he stroked the cat. ‘Enjoy that satisfaction, M. de Berault. Is that all?’
‘Once I was of service to your Eminence,’ I said desperately.
‘Payment has been made,’ he answered, ‘more than once. But for that I should not have seen you.’
‘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 that 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 that 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!