Louis stared straight at him as a man stares in fear through the dark. Two great drops of perspiration dripped on to the unsigned lettre de cachet.
“Some day, perhaps soon,” said the man, “your Majesty will answer for your acts, not at the tribunal of men, but at the tribunal of—the devil.”
Louis crouched in his chair. His lips moved, but he could not speak.
“Fifteen years ago we last met, your Majesty and I. My wife was stolen from me, my nobility branded, myself condemned and executed on a false charge, and you, Sire, were the author of all these foul deeds. To-day your Majesty is betrayed by the unknown. The man who steals, and will continue to steal, your papers, Sire, is not ‘No. 101’; it is I—I—” he stepped forward—“I, the dead.”
Louis shrank back, his dry lips moving; his fingers convulsively crept towards the hand-bell.
“Touch that bell,” said the man in a terrible tone, “and I will strangle you, Sire—royal betrayer of women, curse of the orphan and the fatherless.”
Louis’s arm fell paralysed at his side.
“Take warning,” the unknown continued, “take warning in time. If you, Sire, would save yourself from the judgment of God, dismiss at once the woman who betrays you, the woman called the Marquise de Pompadour.” He paused and repeated her name twice, adding with emphasis on each word, “And remember Dieu Le Vengeur! Dieu Le Vengeur!”
The motto seemed to strike an awful chord in the King’s memory. He covered his face with his hands. When at last a long silence gave him courage again to look up, the room was empty. He was alone!
Ah! He had dreamed an evil dream, that was all. With a shudder of relief he stretched his arms as one freed from the mastery of unendurable pain. A dream, thank God! an evil dream. And then his eye fell on his desk. The lettre de cachet was torn into bits, and the bits were wet with the perspiration of his agony. The King tottered to his feet, clutched at the hand-bell feverishly, and rang—rang—rang.