“Monsieur du Trémigon,” said the Queen, “have mercy!”
“Madame, love has no mercy. I am passionately devoted to Mademoiselle.”
“And is that why,” asked Marie Antoinette, with a swift change of manner, “that you set your man, Babin, and two other ruffians to attack Mademoiselle on the road to Paris ten days ago?”
She drove her queries home with the directness of sword-thrusts. The Marquis gasped, fell back, utterly dismayed. He moistened his lips and strove to speak.
“I—I—I do not know what Your Majesty means—” he faltered. “I had a servant called Babin in my employ, but I have discharged him.”
“You did not know,” said the Queen pitilessly, “that Mademoiselle was carrying papers of infinite concern to me? Relying on your sense of honor”—she smiled mockingly—“I tell you the truth. They were letters that I had written years ago—silly, foolish letters, which yet might have given me trouble. Mademoiselle volunteered to get them and bring them to me. And you, Monsieur du Trémigon, having learned this in some way—oh, I have fathomed the whole procedure,” she went on, rising and confronting him. “You thought to get me in your power and force a consent from Mademoiselle through her love for me!”
“Madame, I am innocent. I know no more about this than you have told me. Babin has not been in my service for months. I know nothing about the letters.”
“Do you swear it?”
“I swear it!”
The Queen struck a bell on the table at my side. The equerry presented himself.