I turned it over in my mind, after I had left the King’s presence, whether or not I should visit with my own hands upon Chatellerault the punishment he had so fully earned.  That I would have gone about the task rejoicing you may readily imagine; but there was that accursed wager, and ­to restrain me ­the thought of how such an action might be construed into an evasion of its consequences.  Better a thousand times that His Majesty should order his arrest and deal with him for his attempted perversion of justice to the service of his own vile ends.  The charge of having abused his trust as King’s commissioner to the extent of seeking to do murder through the channels of the Tribunal was one that could not fail to have fatal results for him ­as, indeed, the King had sworn.

That was the position of affairs as it concerned Chatellerault, the world, and me.  But the position must also be considered as it concerned Roxalanne, and deeply, indeed, did I so consider it.  Much pondering brought me again to the conclusion that until I had made the only atonement in my power, the only atonement that would leave me with clean hands, I must not again approach her.

Whether Chatellerault had cheated or not could not affect the question as it concerned Mademoiselle and me.  If I paid the wager ­whether in honour bound to do so or not ­I might then go to her, impoverished, it is true, but at least with no suspicion attaching to my suit of any ulterior object other than that of winning Roxalanne herself.

I could then make confession, and surely the fact that I had paid where clearly there was no longer any need to pay must earn me forgiveness and afford proof of the sincerity of my passion.

Upon such a course, then, did I decide, and, with this end in view, I took my way towards the Auberge Royale, where His Majesty had told me that the Count was lodged.  It was my purpose to show myself fully aware of the treacherous and unworthy part he had played at the very inception of the affair, and that if I chose to consider the wager lost it was that I might the more honestly win the lady.

Upon inquiring at the hostelry for Monsieur de Chatellerault I was informed by the servant I addressed that he was within, but that at the moment he had a visitor.  I replied that I would wait, and demanded a private room, since I desired to avoid meeting any Court acquaintances who might chance into the auberge before I had seen the Count.

My apparel at the moment may not have been all that could have been desired, but when a gentleman’s rearing has taken place amid an army of servitors to minister to his every wish, he is likely to have acquired an air that is wont to win him obedience.  With all celerity was I ushered into a small chamber, opening on the one side upon the common room, and being divided on the other by the thinnest of wooden partitions from the adjoining apartment.

Here, the landlord having left me, I disposed myself to wait, and here I did a thing I would not have believed myself capable of doing, a thing I cannot think of without blushing to this very day.  In short, I played the eavesdropper ­I, Marcel Saint-Pol de Bardelys.  Yet, if you who read and are nice-minded, shudder at this confession, or, worse still, shrug your shoulders in contempt, with the reflection that such former conduct of mine as I have avowed had already partly disposed you against surprise at this I do but ask that you measure my sin by my temptation, and think honestly whether in my position you might not yourselves have fallen.  Aye ­be you never so noble and high-principled ­I make bold to say that you had done no less, for the voice that penetrated to my ears was that of Roxalanne de Lavedan.

“I sought an audience with the King,” she was saying, “but I could not gain his presence.  They told me that he was holding no levees, and that he refused to see any one not introduced by one of those having the private entree.”

“And so,” answered the voice of Chatellerault, in tones that were perfectly colourless, “you come to me that I may present you to his Majesty?”

“You have guessed it, Monsieur lé Comte.  You are the only gentleman of His Majesty’s suite, with whom I can claim acquaintance ­however slight ­and, moreover, it is well known how high you stand in his royal favour.  I was told that they that have a boon to crave can find no better sponsor.”

“Had you gone to the King, mademoiselle,” said he, “had you gained audience, he would have directed you to make your appeal to me.  I am his Commissioner in Languedoc, and the prisoners attainted with high treason are my property.”

“Why then, monsieur,” she cried in an eager voice, that set my pulses throbbing, “you’ll not deny me the boon I crave?  You’ll not deny me his life?”

There was a short laugh from Chatellerault, and I could hear the deliberate fall of his feet as he paced the chamber.

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, you must not overrate my powers.  You must not forget that I am the slave of Justice.  You may be asking more than is in my power to grant.  What can you advance to show that I should be justified in proceeding as you wish?”

“Helas, monsieur, I can advance nothing but my prayers and the assurance that a hideous mistake is being made.”

“What is your interest in this Monsieur de Lesperon?”

“He is not Monsieur de Lesperon,” she cried.

“But, since you cannot tell me who he is, you must be content that we speak of him at least as Lesperon,” said he, and I could imagine the evil grin with which he would accompany the words.

The better that you may appreciate that which followed, let me here impart to you the suspicions which were already sinking into my mind, to be changed later into absolute convictions touching the course the Count intended to pursue concerning me.  The sudden arrival of the King had thrown him into some measure of panic, and no longer daring to carry out his plans concerning me, it was his object, I made no doubt, to set me at liberty that very evening.  Ere he did so, however, and presuming upon my ignorance of His Majesty’s presence in Toulouse, Chatellerault would of a certainty have bound me down by solemn promise ­making that promise the price of my liberty and my life ­to breathe no word of my captivity and trial.  No doubt, his cunning brain would have advanced me plausible and convincing reasons so to engage myself.

He had not calculated upon Castelroux, nor that the King should already have heard of my detention.  Now that Roxalanne came to entreat him to do that which already he saw himself forced to do, he turned his attention to the profit that he might derive from her interestedness on my behalf.  I could guess also something of the jealous rage that must fill him at this signal proof of my success with her, and already I anticipated, I think, the bargain that he would drive.

“Tell me, then,” he was repeating, “what is your interest in this gentleman?”

There was a silence.  I could imagine her gentle face clouded with the trouble that sprang from devising an’ answer to that question; I could picture her innocent eyes cast down, her delicate cheeks pinked by some measure of shame, as at last, in a low, stifled voice, the four words broke from her “I love him, monsieur.”

Ah, Dieu!  To hear her confess it so!  If yesternight it had stirred me to the very depths of my poor, sinful soul to have her say so much to me, how infinitely more did it not affect me to overhear this frank avowal of it to another!  And to think that she was undergoing all this to the end that she might save me!

From Chatellerault there came an impatient snort in answer, and his feet again smote the floor as he resumed the pacing that for a moment he had suspended.  Then followed a pause, a long silence, broken only by the Count’s restless walking to and fro.  At last “Why are you silent, monsieur?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“Helas, mademoiselle, I can do nothing.  I had feared that it might be thus with you; and, if I put the question, it was in the hope that I was wrong.”

“But he, monsieur?” she exclaimed in anguish.  “What of him?”

“Believe me, mademoiselle, if it lay in my power I would save him were he never so guilty, if only that I might spare you sorrow.”

He spoke with tender regret, foul hypocrite that he was!

“Oh, no, no!” she cried, and her voice was of horror and despair.  “You do not mean that ­” She stopped short; and then, after a pause, it was the Count who finished the sentence for her.

“I mean, mademoiselle, that this Lesperon must die!”

You will marvel that I let her suffer so, that I did not break down the partition with my hands and strike that supple gentleman dead at her feet in atonement for the anguish he was causing her.  But I had a mind to see how far he would drive this game he was engaged upon.

Again there was a spell of silence, and at last, when Mademoiselle spoke, I was amazed at the calm voice in which she addressed him, marvelling at the strength and courage of one so frail and childlike to behold.

“Is your determination, indeed, irrevocable, monsieur?  If you have any pity, will you not at least let me bear my prayers and my tears to the King?”

“It would avail you nothing.  As I have said, the Languedoc rebels are in my hands.”  He paused as if to let those words sink well into her understanding; then, “If I were to set him at liberty, mademoiselle, if I were to spirit him out of prison in the night, bribing his jailers to keep silent and binding him by oath to quit France at once and never to betray me, I should be, myself, guilty of high treason.  Thus alone could the thing be done, and you will see, mademoiselle, that by doing it I should be endangering my neck.”

There was an ineffable undercurrent of meaning in his words ­an intangible suggestion that he might be bribed to do all this to which he so vaguely alluded.

“I understand, monsieur,” she answered, choking ­“I understand that it would be too much to ask of you.”

“It would be much, mademoiselle,” he returned quickly, and his voice was now subdued and invested with an odd quiver.  “But nothing that your lips might ask of me and that it might lie in the power of mortal man to do, would be too much!”

“You mean?” she cried, a catch in her breath.  Had she guessed ­as I, without sight of her face, had guessed ­what was to follow?  My gorge was rising fast.  I clenched my hands, and by an effort I restrained myself to learn that I had guessed aright.

“Some two months ago,” he said, “I journeyed to Lavedan, as you may remember.  I saw you, mademoiselle ­for a brief while only, it is true ­and ever since I have seen nothing else but you.”  His voice went a shade lower, and passion throbbed in his words.

She, too, perceived it, for the grating of a chair informed me that she had risen.

“Not now, monsieur ­not now!” she exclaimed.  “This is not the season.  I beg of you think of my desolation.”

“I do, mademoiselle, and I respect your grief, and, with all my heart, believe me, I share it.  Yet this is the season, and if you have this man’s interests at heart, you will hear me to the end.”

Through all the imperiousness of his tone an odd note of respect ­real or assumed ­was sounding.

“If you suffer, mademoiselle, believe me that I suffer also, and if I make you suffer more by what I say, I beg that you will think how what you have said, how the very motive of your presence here, has made me suffer.  Do you know, mademoiselle, what it is to be torn by jealousy?  Can you imagine it?  If you can, you can imagine also something of the torture I endured when you confessed to me that you loved this Lesperon, when you interceded for his life.  Mademoiselle, I love you ­with all my heart and soul I love you.  I have loved you, I think, since the first moment of our meeting at Lavedan, and to win you there is no risk that I would not take, no danger that I would not brave.”

“Monsieur, I implore you ­”

“Hear me out, mademoiselle!” he cried.  Then in quieter voice he proceeded:  “At present you love this Monsieur de Lesperon ­”

“I shall always love him!  Always, monsieur!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” he exclaimed, annoyed by her interruption.  “If he were to live, and you were to wed him and be daily in his company, I make no doubt your love might endure.  But if he were to die, or if he were to pass into banishment and you were to see him no more, you would mourn him for a little while, and then ­Helas! it is the way of men and women ­time would heal first your sorrow, then your heart.”

“Never, monsieur ­oh, never!”

“I am older, child, than you are.  I know.  At present you are anxious to save his life anxious because you love him, and also because you betrayed him, and you would not have his death upon your conscience.”  He paused a moment; then raising his voice, “Mademoiselle,” said he, “I offer you your lover’s life.”

“Monsieur, monsieur!” cried the poor child, “I knew you were good!  I knew ­”

“A moment!  Do not misapprehend me.  I do not say that I give it ­I offer it.”

“But the difference?”

“That if you would have it, mademoiselle, you must buy it.  I have said that for you I would brave all dangers.  To save your lover, I brave the scaffold.  If I am betrayed, or if the story transpire, my head will assuredly fall in the place of Lesperon’s.  This I will risk, mademoiselle ­I will do it gladly ­if you will promise to become my wife when it is done.”

There was a moan from Roxalanne, then silence; then ­“Oh, monsieur, you are pitiless!  What bargain is this that you offer me?”

“A fair one, surely,” said that son of hell ­“a very fair one.  The risk of my life against your hand in marriage.”

“If you ­if you truly loved me as you say, monsieur,” she reasoned, “you would serve me without asking guerdon.”

“In any other thing I would.  But is it fair to ask a man who is racked by love of you to place another in your arms, and that at the risk of his own life?  Ah, mademoiselle, I am but a man, and I am subject to human weaknesses.  If you will consent, this Lesperon shall go free, but you must see him no more; and I will carry my consideration so far as to give you six months in which to overcome your sorrow, ere I present myself to you again to urge my suit.”

“And if I refuse, monsieur?”

He sighed.

“To the value which I set upon my life you must add my very human jealousy.  From such a combination what can you hope for?”

“You mean, in short, that he must die?”

“To-morrow,” was that infernal cheat’s laconic answer.

They were silent a little while, then she fell a-sobbing.

“Be pitiful, monsieur!  Have mercy if you, indeed, love me.  Oh, he must not die!  I cannot, I dare not, let him die!  Save him, monsieur, and I will pray for you every night of my life; I will pray for you to our Holy Mother as I am now praying to you for him.”

Lived there the man to resist that innocent, devout appeal?  Lived there one who in answer to such gentle words of love and grief could obtrude his own coarse passions?  It seems there did, for all he answered was “You know the price, child.”

“And God pity me!  I must pay it.  I must, for if he dies I shall have his blood upon my conscience!” Then she checked her grief, and her voice grew almost stern in the restraint she set upon herself.  “If I give you my promise to wed you hereafter ­say in six months’ time ­what proof will you afford me that he who is detained under the name of Lesperon shall go free?”

I caught the sound of something very like a gasp from the Count.

“Remain in Toulouse until to-morrow, and to-night ere he departs he shall come to take his leave of you.  Are you content?”

“Be it so, monsieur,” she answered.

Then at last I leapt to my feet.  I could endure no more.  You may marvel that I had had the heart to endure so much, and to have so let her suffer that I might satisfy myself how far this scoundrel Chatellerault would drive his trickster’s bargain.

A more impetuous man would have beaten down the partition, or shouted to her through it the consolation that Chatellerault’s bargain was no bargain at all, since I was already at large.  And that is where a more impetuous man would have acted upon instinct more wisely than did I upon reason.  Instead, I opened the door, and, crossing the common room, I flung myself down a passage that I thought must lead to the chamber in which they were closeted.  But in this I was at fault, and ere I had come upon a waiter and been redirected some precious moments were lost.  He led me back through the common room to a door opening upon another corridor.  He pushed it wide, and I came suddenly face to face with Chatellerault, still flushed from his recent contest.

“You here!” he gasped, his jaw falling, and his cheeks turning pale, as well they might; for all that he could not dream I had overheard his bargaining.

“We will go back, if you please, Monsieur lé Comte.” said I.

“Back where?” he asked stupidly.

“Back to Mademoiselle.  Back to the room you have just quitted.”  And none too gently I pushed him into the corridor again, and so, in the gloom, I missed the expression of his face.

“She is not there,” said he.

I laughed shortly.

“Nevertheless, we will go back,” I insisted.

And so I had my way, and we gained the room where his infamous traffic had been held.  Yet for once he spoke the truth.  She was no longer there.

“Where is she?” I demanded angrily.

“Gone,” he answered; and when I protested that I had not met her, “You would not have a lady go by way of the public room, would you?” he demanded insolently.  “She left by the side door into the courtyard.”

“That being so, Monsieur lé Comte,” said I quietly, “I will have a little talk with you before going after her.”  And I carefully closed the door.