“Tell me, Count,” she said, “when is this plot to be carried out?”
“To-night, madame; and I believe very shortly. You and the King were to be seized in your beds and carried off to the Bishop’s palace, there to be starved into compliance with the demands of the conspirators.”
“And you would advise us, no doubt, to take refuge in the castle immediately?”
“I fear, madame, that you would only be running into danger. The garrison is honeycombed with disaffection.”
“Then there is only one chance left, for I know well that it is impossible to defend this house. We must go to the municipal offices, and throw ourselves on the protection of the burghers.”
“Unfortunately, madame, there is no safety there. The whole of Tatarjé is utterly disloyal.”
“Then what are we to do?” Her voice rang piteously in his ears; but she dashed the tears resolutely from her eyes. “Count, I rely upon you to help me. This plot threatens my son’s honour—not only his kingdom. You have not come here simply to warn us of the approach of inevitable danger. You have a plan to save the King. Tell me what it is. I will follow your advice.”
She had risen so completely above her usual level that for the moment Cyril was tempted to forget her inveterate distrust of him. He answered promptly—
“There is one way to save the King and yourself, madame. If you will consent to adopt a disguise, and to start immediately upon a somewhat troublesome journey, with your son and one lady in attendance, I will do my best to conduct you safely to Bellaviste.”
“Ah! you have made plans for this journey?”