“She received me alone in her apartments the night before last.”
“You coward!” cried Mademoiselle.
“Patience, Gabrielle,” said Marie Antoinette quickly. “You have proofs of that assertion, sir?”
From where I stood with a backward glance I could see the old Duke. He had his hand on his sword, his face was as white as death. He was perfectly rigid. He had been told to remain where he was, however, until he was summoned, and he would not move.
“You have witnesses?” continued the Queen.
“I have. I was seen to go through the gate at eleven o’clock. I climbed to Mademoiselle’s window by the ivy. I remained in her apartment one hour. It was this suit that I now wear in which I presented myself to Mademoiselle.” He turned swiftly to the Countess. “Does not Mademoiselle recognize it?” he said, with a triumphant leer.
She shuddered away from him. And indeed it was the one I had worn!
“You do recognize it, Gabrielle?” asked the Queen. Mademoiselle said nothing, but it was quite evident that she did.
“Your story,” said the Queen composedly, turning to the Marquis, “is most interesting, Monsieur, if it could be believed.”
“Out of consideration to one of your maids of honor”—I could have killed him at the hateful emphasis he laid on that last word—“I hope I may be spared the pain of public testimony.”