I have believed you dead, and mourned you these months, and now ... now ...' She was weeping.
'You have believed me dead?' He stood suddenly stiff within the compass of those maternal arms. His quick mind, that ever moved by leaps, was racing over all that was implied in that assertion.
And then the door behind them opened. A harsh voice spoke.
'I have been waiting, madame, for ...' The voice checked, and then exclaimed: 'Name of God! What is this?'
They fell apart. André-Louis turned. On the threshold, the door wide behind him, stood Monsieur de Plougastel, his brows knit, his face darkening.
André-Louis stood confused, fearful for his mother. But she, helped perhaps by her excitement, by the singleness of her thought, displayed no awkwardness.
'But look who it is, Plougastel.'
The Count craned his neck to stare. 'Moreau!' he said. He, too, was faintly surprised. But in the main indifferent. This godson of Kercadiou's was nothing to him, and he had always thought his wife ridiculous in her attachment to this good-for-nothing, simply because she had known him as a child. 'We thought you dead,' he added, and closed the door.
'But he's alive! Alive!' exclaimed Madame in a quivering voice.
'So I perceive.' Monsieur de Plougastel was dry. 'God knows if he's to be envied.'
André-Louis, now white and grim, desired to know how such a thing had been assumed, and heard, of course, that Langéac had borne the tale to Hamm of his having been killed in the attempt to rescue the Queen.
'But Langéac was followed by another messenger who carried the true story, and also a letter from me to Aline. I know that he arrived safely.'
'The letter never did,' Madame asserted.
'But that is impossible, madame. I know that the letter arrived. And it was not by any means the last. I sent several others, and some of the messengers I have since seen, and have heard from them that those letters were delivered. What does it mean? Can Aline have wished to ...'
Madame interrupted him. 'Aline mourned you for dead. Aline never had any news of you, directly or indirectly, after the tale that Langéac brought of your death. Of that you can be sure. I can answer for what Aline believed as I can answer for what I believed, myself.'
'But then? My letters?' he cried almost in exasperation.
'It is impossible that she should have received them. Impossible that she would not have told me. She knew my own ...' She checked, remembering Plougastel's presence, choked down the word 'anguish' and replaced it by 'concern.' Then she continued: 'But apart from that, I know, André, I know that she remained in the conviction that you were dead.'
He stood there clenching and unclenching his hands, his chin on his breast. There was something here he could not fathom. Links were missing from the chain he sought to complete.
Abruptly he asked of her and of the Comte de Plougastel, who remained coldly aloof, the question beating in his mind. 'How was it possible that these letters were not delivered to her?' And swift on the heels of this came his next fierce question, addressed directly to the Count. 'By whose contriving was it? Do you know, Monsieur de Plougastel?'
Plougastel raised his brows. 'What do you mean? Do I know?'
'You were in attendance upon Monsieur. It may be within your knowledge. That these letters reached Hamm leaves no doubt. Langéac assured me of it so far as the one he carried for me was concerned. He told me that he left it with Monsieur d'Entragues, to be delivered. Monsieur d'Entragues?' Again it was Plougastel he questioned. 'Ay, it lies between Monsieur d'Entragues and the Regent.'
It was Madame de Plougastel who answered him.
'If those letters reached the hands of Monsieur d'Entragues, they must have been suppressed, André.'
'It is the conclusion I had formed, madame,' said André-Louis, whilst the Count stormed at his lady for an assertion which he described as monstrous.
'It is not the assertion that is monstrous, but the fact,' she retorted. 'For clearly it must be the fact.'
Monsieur de Plougastel empurpled. 'Madame, in all my life I have never known you practise discretion in your assumptions. But this transcends all bounds.'
What further form his voluble protest took André-Louis did not wait to ascertain. He heard his storming voice, but did not heed his words. Abruptly he quitted the room, and went forth to demand his horse and directions touching the whereabouts of the Casa Gazzola.
He came to that modest villa in the outskirts, tethered his horse within the gateway, and strode purposefully to the door within the creeper-clad porch. It stood open to the little hallway. He rapped with the butt of his riding-whip on the panel, and to the servant who came in answer to the summons announced himself a courier from Paris.
This made a stir. Only a moment was he kept waiting in the hall until d'Entragues, scrupulously dressed as ever, graceful and consequential as if they were at Versailles, came hurrying forth. At sight of André-Louis, the Count checked, and the expression of the dark, handsome face, with its deeply graven, rather sinister lines, underwent a perceptible change.
'Moreau!' he exclaimed.
André-Louis bowed. He was very coldly self-possessed now, his face set and grim. 'Your memory flatters me, Monsieur le Comte. You believed me dead, I think?'
D'Entragues missed the mockery in his tone. He stammered in the precipitance of his affirmative reply, in his expressions of satisfaction at this evidence that the rumours had been unfounded. Then, dismissing all that in haste, he ended on the question: 'Are you from Paris, do you say?'
'With extraordinary news.'
To d'Entragues's excited demand for details, André-Louis swore that he had not breath to tell his tale twice, and desired to be taken at once to the Regent.
He was ushered into the presence chamber, which, if of no better proportions, was at least more dignified than that of Hamm. The floor was marbled and the ceiling trivially frescoed with cupids and garlands, the work of some journeyman artist's hand. There was a carved press, a gilded coffer; some tall chairs in dark leather with faded gildings were ranged against the wall; and in the middle of the well-lighted room a table with corkscrew legs at which his Highness sat at work. He appeared to have increased in bulk and weight, but his face had lost some of its high colour. He was neatly dressed and his head was powdered. He wore the ribbon of the Holy Ghost and a small dress-sword. At the table's farther end sat the Comte d'Avaray, pallid, fair, and frail.
'Monsieur Moreau, with news from Paris, Monseigneur,' D'Entragues announced.
His Highness laid down his pen, and looked up. Liquid eyes that seemed full of pathos pondered the newcomer, noted the dust upon him, and the erect carriage of his slender, vigorous figure.
'Moreau?' he echoed. 'Moreau?' The name was awakening memories in the royal mind. They came with a rush, and at their coming the colour rose in the great face and then receded again. The voice strove to maintain its level tone. 'Ah, Moreau! And from Paris, with news, you say?'
'With great news, Monseigneur,' André-Louis replied. 'I am sent by the Baron de Batz to give your Highness the full details of the underground campaign we have been conducting against the revolutionaries, and of the stages by which we possessed ourselves of the keys to ultimate success.'
'Success?' the Regent echoed. He leaned forward eagerly. 'Success, sir?'
'Your Highness shall judge.'
André-Louis was very cold and formal in his manner. He began with the fall of the Girondins, stressing the part which de Batz and he had played in this by their propaganda.
'They were the most dangerous of all the foes of monarchy,' he explained, 'because they were sane and moderate in their notions. If they had prevailed, they would have set up an orderly republican government under which the people might have been content. Therefore their removal was a great forward step. It left the government