"Monsieur," said Gaston, "do not wonder if I hesitate a moment, for this is no personal favor and no ordinary service--Gaston de Chanlay needs but a dagger, and here it is; but in sacrificing his body he would not lose his soul; mine, monseigneur, belongs first to G.o.d and then to a young girl whom I love to idolatry--sad love, is it not, which has bloomed so near a tomb? To abandon this pure and tender girl would be to tempt G.o.d in a most rash manner, for I see that sometimes he tries us cruelly, and lets even his angels suffer. I love, then, an adorable woman, whom my affection has supported and protected against infamous schemes; when I am dead or banished, what will become of her? _Our_ heads fall, monseigneur; they are those of simple gentlemen; but you are a powerful adversary, and supported by a powerful king; _you_ can conquer evil fortune. I wish to place in your hands the treasure of my soul. You will bestow on her all the protection which, as an accomplice, as an a.s.sociate, you owe to me."
"Monsieur, I promise you," replied the regent, deeply moved.
"That is not all, monseigneur; misfortune may overtake me, and find me not able to bestow my person upon her; I would yet leave her my name. If I die she has no fortune, for she is an orphan. On leaving Nantes I made a will wherein I left her everything I possessed. Monseigneur, if I die, let her be a widow--is it possible?"
"Who opposes it?"
"No one; but I may be arrested to-morrow, this evening, on putting my foot outside this house."
The regent started at this strange presentiment.
"Suppose I am taken to the Bastille; could you obtain for me permission to marry her before my execution?"
"I am sure of it."
"You will use every means to obtain this favor for me? Swear it to me, monseigneur, that I may bless your name, and that, even under torture, nothing may escape but a thanksgiving when I think of you."
"On my honor, monsieur, I promise you that this young girl shall be sacred to me; she shall inherit in my heart all the affection which I involuntarily feel for you."
"Monseigneur, one word more."
"Speak, monsieur; I listen with the deepest sympathy."
"This young girl knows nothing of my project; she does not know what has brought me to Paris, nor the catastrophe which threatens us, for I have not had the courage to tell her. You will tell it to her, monseigneur--prepare her for the event. I shall never see her again, but to become her husband. If I were to see her again at the moment of striking the blow which separates me from her, my hand might tremble, and this must not be."
"On my word of honor, monsieur," said the regent, softened beyond all expression, "I repeat, not only shall this young girl be sacred to me, but I will do all you wish for her--she shall reap the fruits of the respect and affection with which you have inspired me."
"Now," said Gaston, "I am strong."
"And where is this young girl?"
"Below, in the carriage which brought me. Let me retire, monseigneur, and only tell me where she will be placed."
"Here, monsieur; this house, which is not inhabited, and which is very suitable for a young girl, shall be hers."
"Monseigneur, your hand."
The regent held out his hand, but hearing a little dry cough, he understood that Dubois was becoming impatient, and he indicated to Gaston that the audience was over.
"Once more, monseigneur, watch over this young girl; she is beautiful, amiable and proud--one of those n.o.ble natures which we meet but seldom.
Adieu, monseigneur, I go to find your secretary."
"And must I tell her that you are about to take a man"s life?" asked the regent, making one more effort to restrain Gaston.
"Yes, monseigneur," said the chevalier; "but you will add that I do it to save France."
"Go then, monsieur," said the duke, opening a door which led into the garden, "and follow the directions I have given you."
"Wish me good fortune, monseigneur."
"The madman," thought the regent; "does he wish me to pray for success to his dagger"s thrust? Ma foi, no!"
Gaston went out, the gravel, half-covered with snow, creaked under his feet--the regent watched him for some time from the window of the corridor--then, when he had lost sight of him--
"Well," said he, "each one must go his own way. Poor fellow!"
And he returned to the room, where he found Dubois, who had entered by another door, and was waiting for him.
Dubois"s face wore an expression of malicious satisfaction which did not escape the regent, who watched him some time in silence, as if trying to discover what was pa.s.sing through the brain of this second Mephistopheles.
Dubois was the first to speak.
"Well, monseigneur, you are rid of him at last, I hope."
"Yes," replied the duke; "but in a manner which greatly displeases me--I do not like playing a part in your comedies, as you know."
"Possibly; but you might, perhaps, do wisely in giving me a part in yours."
"How so?"
"They would be more successful, and the denouements would be better."
"I do not understand--explain yourself, and quickly, for I have some one waiting whom I must receive."
"Oh! certainly, monseigneur, receive them, and we will continue our conversation later--the denouement of this comedy has already taken place, and cannot be changed."
And with these words, Dubois bowed with the mock respect which he generally a.s.sumed whenever, in the eternal game they played against each other, he held the best cards.
Nothing made the regent so uneasy as this simulated respect; he held him back--
"What is there now?" asked he; "what have you discovered?"
"That you are a skillful dissimulator, peste!"
"That astonishes you?"
"No, it troubles me; a few steps further, and you will do wonders in this art--you will have no further need of me; you will have to send me away to educate your son, whom, it must be confessed, requires a master like myself."
"Speak quickly."
"Certainly, monseigneur; it is not now, however, a question of your son, but of your daughter."
"Of which daughter?"
"Ah! true; there are so many. First, the Abbess of Ch.e.l.les, then Madame de Berry, then Mademoiselle de Valois; then the others, too young for the world, and therefore for me, to speak of; then, lastly, the charming Bretagne flower, the wild blossom which was to be kept away from Dubois"s poisoning breath, for fear it should wither under it."
"Do you dare to say I was wrong?"