"That is not true," she pleaded, yet without conviction. "He is not in danger of his life. They can prove nothing against him. Monsieur de Saint-Eustache could find no evidence here - nothing.""Yet there is Monsieur de Saint-Eustache's word; there is the fact - the significant fact - that your father did not take up arms for the King, to afford the Chevalier's accusation some measure of corroboration. At Toulouse in these times they are not particular.
Remember how it had fared with me but for the King's timely arrival."That smote home. The last shred of her strength fell from her. Agreat sob shook her, then covering her face with her hands "Mother in heaven, have pity on me!" she cried. "Oh, it cannot be, it cannot be!"Her distress touched me sorely. I would have consoled her, I would have bidden her have no fear, assuring her that I would save her father. But for my own ends, I curbed the mood. I would use this as a cudgel to shatter her obstinacy, and I prayed that God might forgive me if I did aught that a gentleman should account unworthy.
My need was urgent, my love all-engrossing; winning her meant winning life and happiness, and already I had sacrificed so much.
Her cry rang still in my ears, "It cannot be, it cannot be!"I trampled my nascent tenderness underfoot, and in its room I set a harshness that I did not feel - a harshness of defiance and menace.
"It can be, it will be, and, as God lives, it shall be, if you persist in your unreasonable attitude.""Monsieur, have mercy!"
"Yes, when you shall be pleased to show me the way to it by having mercy upon me. If I have sinned, I have atoned. But that is a closed question now; to reopen it were futile. Take heed of this, Roxalanne: there is one thing - one only in all France can save your father.""That is, monsieur?" she inquired breathlessly.
"My word against that of Saint-Eustache. My indication to His Majesty that your father's treason is not to be accepted on the accusation of Saint-Eustache. My information to the King of what I know touching this gentleman.""You will go, monsieur?" she implored me. "Oh, you will save him!
Mon Dieu, to think of the time that we have wasted here, you and I, whilst he is being carried to the scaffold! Oh, I did not dream it was so perilous with him! I was desolated by his arrest; I thought of some months' imprisonment, perhaps. But that he should die - !
Monsieur de Bardelys, you will save him! Say that you will do this for me!"She was on her knees to me now, her arms clasping my boots, her eyes raised in entreaty - God, what entreaty! - to my own.
"Rise, mademoiselle, I beseech you," I said, with a quiet I was far from feeling. "There is no need for this. Let us be calm. The danger to your father is not so imminent. We may have some days yet - three or four, perhaps."I lifted her gently and led her to a chair. I was hard put to it not to hold her supported in my arms. But I might not cull that advantage from her distress. A singular niceness, you will say, perhaps, as in your scorn you laugh at me. Perhaps you are right to laugh - yet are you not altogether right.
"You will go to Toulouse, monsieur?" she begged.
I took a turn in the room, then halting before her "Yes," I answered, "I will go."The gratitude that leapt to her eyes smote me hard, for my sentence was unfinished.
"I will go," I continued quickly, "when you shall have promised to become my wife."The joy passed from her face. She glanced at me a moment as if without understanding.
"I came to Lavedan to win you, Roxalanne, and from Lavedan I shall not stir until I have accomplished my design," I said very quietly.
"You will therefore see that it rests with you how soon I may set out."She fell to weeping softly, but answered nothing. At last I turned from her and moved towards the door.
"Where are you going?" she cried.
"To take the air, mademoiselle. If upon deliberation you can bring yourself to marry me, send me word by Anatole or one of the others, and I shall set out at once for Toulouse.""Stop!" she cried. Obediently I stopped, my hand already upon the doorknob. "You are cruel, monsieur!" she complained.
"I love you," said I, by way of explaining it. "To be cruel seems to be the way of love. You have been cruel to me.""Would you - would you take what is not freely given?""I have the hope that when you see that you must give, you will give freely.""If - if I make you this promise - "
"Yes?" I was growing white with eagerness.
"You will fulfil your part of the bargain?""It is a habit of mine, mademoiselle - as witnesses the case of Chatellerault." She shivered at the mention of his name. It reminded her of precisely such another bargain that three nights ago she had made. Precisely, did I say? Well, not quite precisely.
"I - I promise to marry you, then," said she in a choking voice, "whenever you choose, after my father shall have been set at liberty."I bowed. "I shall start at once," said I.
And perhaps out of shame, perhaps out of - who shall say what sentiments? - I turned without another word and left her.
