Felix moved from group to group, solemn, yet smooth-tongued. His ears were keen to catch whispers, his eyes quick to note each man"s expression.
"Felix."
His name was whispered as he pa.s.sed through the entrance of the great hall, and he turned quickly.
"Elisabeth."
"I must see you alone," she said. "I have that to tell you which you ought to hear without delay."
"Christine?" he asked.
Elisabeth nodded, and then as the Count turned and led her away, the dwarf came from a dark corner where he had stood watching the Countess.
"This means mischief," he said, and went quickly down the corridor.
Many had looked for Mademoiselle de Liancourt at the castle that night, and marvelled that she was not present. Felix recognized only too well that her absence was unfavorable to him, and, if necessary, would certainly have used force to bring her to the castle had he known where to find her.
But for the promise given to Herrick, it is doubtful whether Christine would have remained in her hiding-place to-day. Her uncle had been very good to her; had loved her, perhaps, more than he had loved any one else in the world; had listened to her pleading when none else dared approach him, and many a man had her to thank for saving him from the Duke"s anger. Christine"s heart was heavy because she could not pay her last respects to the dead, and there was rage, too, in her soul that Felix had dared to take some marred corpse and bury it in pomp and state, declaring it to be Maurice"s body. She longed to rush out into the street and proclaim his treachery to every pa.s.ser-by.
To-night Christine stood by the open window of her room deep in thought, yet attentive to any sound in the garden below. Many things might have happened to-day, and Jean might bring her news at any moment. The tolling of the great bell at St. Etienne had ceased long ago, only the faint music of the carillon wove itself into her thoughts. She glanced back into the room where Lucille sat bending over a book. The girl had been with her ever since Countess Elisabeth had gone out. Christine had thought nothing of this fact at first, but when Lucille so persistently stayed with her, following her if she went from one room to another, she began to wonder if the girl were not carrying out some instructions she had received. Christine felt that there had not been a true ring about the Countess"s welcome the other night, and since then there had been many signs of uncertainty and effort in her conversation and in her actions.
"Are not your eyes weary of reading, Lucille?" Christine asked suddenly.
"No," answered the girl, looking up; "but I would rather talk."
"Talk! Of what? Prisons and death?"
"Oh, but there are other things. Why should we talk of death or a prison?"
"Come here, Lucille." And Christine put her arm round her, and drew her to the window. "Isn"t the city quiet to-night? It seems a sentient thing, awestruck and keeping silent because it knows that death is in it."
"I have known it as quiet other nights," the girl answered.
"What were your dreams then?"
"The Countess called them a silly girl"s dreams, because I told her,"
said Lucille, a blush dyeing her fair face.
"Tell me. Perhaps I shall understand better."
"I wonder if you would! You know my little history--that I am the last of a family once rich and famous in Montvilliers. Long, long ago some ancestor of mine displeased some ancestor of yours, who was Duke then, and we lost honor and estates, and we have never risen again. Yet there has always been a legend that we should come to honor once more, and, strangely, that it should come through a woman. I am the only one left, so I dream."
"Of what?"
"Sometimes of a great deed that I shall do, and perhaps suffer for, but which shall make my name famous through all the world. And sometimes it is different."
"Well, Lucille?"
"Sometimes it is love," the girl whispered, "and I dream of a prince who shall come, who shall pa.s.s by all the rich and beautiful women, and kneel to me. So we may win back honor that way. Do you call them a silly girl"s fancies?"
"No. Youth will dream of love, it cannot help it."
"Do you?" Lucille asked.
"That, I should confess to you, was not in the bargain," said Christine. "Some day perhaps I may help you to your ambition."
"Will you?" was the eager question.
"We will talk of it another time. To-night I can only think of death and a prison--death in the city, a prison in this house."
"This house a prison!" exclaimed the girl.
"I have a mind to go out for a little while."
"The garden is dark and wet. It has rained much to-day."
"The garden will not satisfy me--I mean in the streets. Yes, I think I will go."
"Oh, no, you must not," said Lucille.
"Why not?"
"The Countess said----"
"That I was not to be allowed to leave the house," Christine said.
"Was that her command?"
"She meant for your own sake."
"Did she? Are you clever enough to read all that is in Countess Elisabeth"s mind?"
"She has been very good to me," the girl answered. "I would not disobey her."
"I am not blaming you. You shall keep me prisoner. I will not go out to-night."
"Thank you; and you will----"
Lucille stopped. There was a knocking at the door, and a servant entered.
"Mademoiselle!--I mean Mademoiselle Lucille."
"What is it?"
"A man would speak with--with you."
"Or with me?" asked Christine sharply.
"With--with----"