patience. He had perceived the obstacle to his aims in Mademoiselle de Kercadiou's attachment to André-Louis Moreau. So, whilst on the one hand he was irritated by the intervention of de Batz in a province which he regarded as his own, he found compensation in the fact that de Batz was removing Moreau for the time being from Mademoiselle de Kercadiou's neighbourhood. His satisfaction in this had been immeasurably increased by the perception that Monsieur himself had welcomed this removal. To this, and to this only, had d'Entragues assigned the sudden volte-face, the sudden assumption of graciousness towards those two adventurers in defiance even of Monsieur d'Artois, by which the Regent had made sure that André-Louis Moreau should accompany the Baron de Batz to France.
You conceive, therefore, the secret satisfaction with which d'Entragues ushered Monsieur de Langéac and the story of Moreau's end to his Highness. And he fancied that the Regent's glance had brightened even whilst he expressed grief at that young adventurer's untoward death, encountered in the service of the House of Bourbon.
There was, however, no suspicion of brightness in the Regent's glance when he went to pay his visit that afternoon to Monsieur de Kercadiou. His gloom was so marked that, as uncle and niece rose to receive him, Aline cried out at once with sincere solicitude.
'Monseigneur! You have had bad news.'
He stared at them lugubriously from the doorway. He fetched a heavy sigh, half-raised his right hand, then let it fall again. 'How quick, mademoiselle, are your perceptions! How very quick!'
'Ah, Monseigneur, who is not quick to perceive the signs of distress in those we love and honour.'
He moved forward with that ponderous, jerky gait of his to the chair which Monsieur de Kercadiou made haste to set for him. The Comte d'Entragues, who was in attendance, paused to close the door.
Some roses culled by Aline that morning stood in a bowl of green ware upon the table, their presence lending a grace to the modest chamber, their fragrance sweetening the air of it.
His Highness settled himself in the chair. He yielded to the habit of thrusting the ferrule of his cane into the side of his shoe. His glance was upon the ground.
'My heart is heavy, indeed,' he said. 'The attempt to save her Majesty has failed, and failed in such circumstances that no renewal of the attempt would appear possible.'
There was a silence. The Regent fidgeted with his cane. Aline's countenance betrayed her sincere distress. It was Monsieur de Kercadiou at last who spoke.
'And Monsieur de Batz? Monsieur de Batz and those who were with him?'
Monsieur avoided the straining eyes of Aline. His voice came huskily. His tone suggested reservations. 'Monsieur de Batz is safe.'
D'Entragues did not miss the shiver that ran through mademoiselle, or the sudden pallor that made her staring eyes look black.
'And ... and the others?' she asked in a dry, unsteady voice. 'The others? Monsieur Moreau? What of Monsieur Moreau, Monseigneur?'
There was silence. Monsieur's glance continued intent upon the waxed floor. It was clear that he could not bear to look at her. He moved his shoulders a little. He sighed and his plump hand was raised and lowered again in a gesture of helplessness. Gently d'Entragues answered for him.
'We have cause to fear the worst, mademoiselle.'
'You have cause ... What cause? Tell me, monsieur.'
'In God's name, monsieur!' cried Kercadiou.
Monsieur d'Entragues found it easier to address himself to the Lord of Gavrillac. 'There is room for no hope at all touching Monsieur Moreau.'
'You mean that he is ... dead?'
'Alas, monsieur.'
Kercadiou made an inarticulate noise, and put up his hands as if to ward a blow. Mademoiselle, ashen-faced, staggered back to a chair, and sat down abruptly, her hands limp in her lap, her eyes staring straight before her.
The room and its tenants dissolved out of her vision. In its place came a scene of crisp snow under sunshine dappled with the shadows of snow-clad branches beside a dark-flowing stream; and there keeping step with her strode André-Louis, straight, slim, masterful, alert, and intensely alive. That was her last, clearest memory of her vivid lover as he had walked with her on a morning half a year ago.
And then she grew conscious once more of the room in which she sat. She found the Regent standing over her, his hand upon her shoulder. It seemed to her that it was his touch which had pulled her back into the hideous present. He was uttering a protest, in his thick, purring voice.
'D'Entragues, you were too abrupt. You should have used more care, you fool.'
Next she heard her own voice, oddly level and controlled.
'Do not blame Monsieur d'Entragues, Monseigneur. Such news is best given quickly and plainly.'
'My poor child!' The purring note in his voice grew deeper. His hand pressed more heavily upon her shoulder. 'My poor child!' He stood over her, portly, dull-eyed, and silent for a long moment until he found the words he needed. 'Of all the sacrifices made in the sacred cause of Throne and Altar, I count none more heavy than this.' It might have seemed a startling exaggeration until he explained it. 'For believe me, mademoiselle, I would suffer anything rather than that pain and sorrow should touch you.'
'Monseigneur, you are good. You are very good.' She spoke mechanically. A moment later, looking at Monsieur d'Entragues, she asked: 'How did it happen?'
'Fetch Langéac,' his Highness commanded.
Langéac, who had been left waiting below, was brought up. Nervously he stood before this sorrow, to tell the tale of those events in the Rue Charlot.
Aline had no tears. Even now she could scarcely realize this thing. Her senses were in rebellion against belief. It seemed so impossible that André—her André, so quick, so vital, so mercurial in mind and body—should be dead.
Gradually, as Langéac unfolded his tale, conviction was borne in upon her. His story was that Moreau had been killed on the spot. The probability was converted into certainty out of charitable motives. It had been suggested by d'Entragues, and the Regent had approved it, that thus she would suffer less than if she were tortured by doubts of his possible survival merely that he might perish on the guillotine.
'There I recognize him,' she said quietly when the tale was done. 'He gave himself to save another. That is the story of all his life.'
Still she had no tears. These were not to come until later, not until she and Madame de Plougastel were in each other's arms, seeking in each other strength to bear this common sorrow.
The Countess had heard the news from her husband. In his ignorance of the relationship in which she stood to André-Louis, he had conveyed it to her with a brutal lack of mitigation.
'That boastful fool, de Batz, has failed again, as all might have known he would. And his failure has cost some lives. All that has been accomplished is to save Aline de Kercadiou from the preposterous mésalliance she contemplated. Moreau has been killed.'
Receiving no answer, he turned to question her, and found that she had fainted. Amazed, his amazement blent with a certain unreasoned indignation, he stood frowning over her before making any attempt to summon assistance.
When at last she was restored, he pompously demanded explanations. She offered the best she could. She had known André-Louis from his childhood; and then there was her sorrow on behalf of Aline whose heart would be broken by this dreadful thing. On that she had gone in quest of Mademoiselle de Kercadiou, at once to bear consolation and to seek it, whilst the Lord of Gavrillac, himself deeply afflicted, vainly sought to comfort both.
Monsieur had departed in a gloom deeper than that in which he had come. This was perhaps explained by his first words as they walked in the bright sunshine towards the châlet.
'She would seem to have held that rascal in very deep affection.'
Monsieur d'Entragues, tall and elegant at his