The situation was becoming impossible. It was fortunately saved for me by the entrance of an equerry.
“Your Majesty”—he stopped and bowed low—“Monsieur le Marquis du Trémigon would like the honor of an audience.”
“Monsieur,” said the Queen, turning to me, “you still persist in this mad resolution?”
“Madame, I am determined in it. There is but one voice that can send me to America—alone.”
“And that voice.”
“Is Mademoiselle’s.”
“Speak to him, Gabrielle,” said the Queen.
Mademoiselle turned and looked at me. Her lips formed a word; she drew her breath sharply in, but no sound came.
“With reverence to Your Majesty, that word Mademoiselle cannot say.”
“Why not, Monsieur?”