André wiped the perspiration from his brow. The woman smiled and approached him.
“Come, Vicomte,” she said. “It is disagreeable, perhaps, for André de Nérac to arrest a beautiful woman, but you have kept your men waiting quite long enough in the Carrefour out there. Onslow has gone to the Bastille? Yes? Then do me the favour of sending me to Vincennes. I cannot share the same prison as that miscreant murderer.” She walked towards the curtains. André guessed she was about to signal to the square.
“Stop,” he cried, in sharp despair, “stop!”
“You have no choice,” she said. “Are you aware that I have been tracked to this house; that it is known to your police, warned by yourself four hours ago, that I have not left it? Do you doubt my word? Then look.” She cautiously drew back a curtain on the panelled wall which covered a small window. André, with the curtain behind him shutting out the light, stared into the moonlit court at the back. When he let the curtain fall his face wore almost the look of the hunted felon.
“Well; you recognised them,” the Princess said calmly. “Four, I think. Yes? They are Madame de Pompadour’s men,” she added. “She does not trust you, poor woman; she, too, sent messages from Versailles, and she will wish to know in the morning the reason why you have not arrested the impudent hussy who derided her at an inn, who is a traitor into the bargain, and who was in your power, alone, undefended, and with the evidence of her guilt staring you in the face.” She quietly touched the despatch and the letter lying on the table. “Unless, my friend, you wish to join George Onslow, the Comte de Mont Rouge, and myself in the cells you had better do your duty.”
André feverishly took up the papers; he looked now towards the great window into the Carrefour, now towards that hateful little outlook into the court where he knew the sleuth-hounds of an ambitious woman dogged their guilty prey.
“It is useless to destroy the papers,” the Princess remarked placidly. “That will only send Mademoiselle de Beau Séjour to join our pleasant party at the Bastille. Madame de Pompadour is a great and beautiful woman, but like all really ambitious men and women she has no mercy, and she naturally does not wish to take our places in the cells. She is fighting for her life and love as you are. Come, Vicomte, be reasonable. In five minutes it will be all over and you will return a hero to Versailles. Remember what awaits you there.”
Every sentence in this calmly terrible speech made André feel more misery than he could have believed a man could endure.
“Why be in any doubt?” she began again.
“Oh, for God’s sake—” he pleaded. “For God’s sake——”