This sense of loneliness was, in truth, her despair as the minutes passed and the moment for the king's coming approached. Though she had regarded Louis's intention to sup with her as an adventure which should provoke laughter rather than alarm, the presence of lackeys, who began to set the table for the repast, recalled to her the reality of it all, and perhaps, the danger. If the Jesuit was not to fail her, at any rate he had long deferred his coming. It was then half-past seven, and the king was to sup with her at eight; she began to contemplate the possibility of having to bear the whole brunt of his company; of having to defend herself in an encounter which many an older woman might have dreaded. The thought of de Guyon alone nerved her to the idea. She had come to Fontainebleau for love of him—for love of him would she combat all the shame that might be put upon her.
Soon after her arrival at the palace, she had changed her riding-dress of green for a black gown, decked out with lace at the throat and arms, but sombre when contrasted with the gaudy splendours about her. Her only ornament was a little diamond cross upon her breast; but her beauty was enhanced by the simplicity, and it stood out radiantly when she appealed to Dominique at a quarter to eight, the smile still about her lips, but her hands trembling beyond concealment.
"You have no news of Père Cavaignac yet?" she asked.
"You still believe that he will come, my lady?"
She had begun to doubt, but of her doubts she would not speak.
"Of course he will come!" she said in a low voice. "Has he not promised me?"
"Parbleu! and you think that he would show his face in the king's palace. Ma foi, what an idea!"
"I have no doubt that he will find a way. He knows this château as no other man knows it. There is not a room of which he has not the secrets. Oh, I am sure that he will find a way, Dominique."
"And if he does?"
"I shall have a friend."
"Whom the guard will seize so soon as he opens his lips to declare himself. A pretty friend, my lady."
She had not thought of this—of the weakness of the priest wearing the mantle of strength in her presence, because of that child-like belief of which she was the victim. But when the old servant spoke of it, the scales fell from her eyes, and for the first time she became conscious of her own helplessness.
"Dominique!" she exclaimed, "I have done wrong in coming here."
"As I said upon the way, madame."
If he had offered to her any sympathy, or had spoken a comforting word, perchance her courage would have stood strong to the encounter; but he remembered only that an unreasoning impulse had brought her to the palace, and that she must pay the penalty. In which mood he fell to his work again, and she was left in the great room, with her loneliness and her fears for company. Then, for the first time, there were tears in her eyes, and she fell upon her knees in the dark alcove of the window, to pray that strength might be given to her.
Though the neighbouring room was lit by the light of a hundred tapers, and the mirrors caught up and scattered the bountiful rays, her own apartment had been left almost in darkness. She heard no longer the buzz of lackeys' voices or the ringing of glasses; yet she could smell the perfume of the roses upon the table, and she knew that supper was served, and that any minute might bring her face to face with the man who was moved by no impulse but the impulse of his pleasure; who had never spoken a noble word, or done an unselfish deed. The reality fed the fears which now possessed her; she could have cried aloud for pity and for help; she thought even of flight, yet remembered her lover and prayed the more. And her anguish was at the zenith when the answer came.
Swift and sudden the apparition was, coming like a phantom out of the shadows of the room. She heard no step; no door turned upon its hinges; no footfall broke the silence; yet was she conscious that one stood beside her, that his eyes were watching her, that her faith was justified. Without a word, she turned to him; the tears she had conquered gushed forth again and fell upon his outstretched hand; she clung to him like a child that has found a father.
"I knew you would come to me," she cried at last.
"And I am here, my child."
"You will not leave me now?"
"Leave you—God forbid!"
"And you will help my lover?"
"I come to set him free."
She would have thanked him, but he raised his hand warningly, while in the court without a bell began to strike the hour.
"Hark!" said he, "that is eight o'clock. There is no time for words. Do only that which I bid you."
He stepped to the oaken wall upon the opposite side of the room, and pressing his hand upon the glass of a small mirror, he opened a panel in the wainscoting, and beckoned to her.
"Three doors from here to the right is the chapel of St. Louis. Wait there until you are summoned."
The girl saw nothing but a dark and gloomy passage, but she went readily at his words, and when the echo of her steps had died away he closed the panel. At the same moment, the door in the second chamber was shut gently.
The "Well-Beloved" had come to sup.
CHAPTER XIV
THE KING SUPS.
The Jesuit wore his cassock, and a black cape about his shoulders. His step was like the step of a cat, as he crossed the room and stooped in the shadow of an angle, wherefrom he could observe the king. Never in his life had he embarked upon a venture of which the outcome was so doubtful; never had he more need of his mind and of his courage. One cry uttered by Louis, one false step of his own, and the end would be swift. He stood alone to fight the battle of the woman; and even while he waited he remembered that the flesh of Damiens had been torn with red-hot pincers, that the body of Ravaillac had been burst asunder to make a Parisian holiday.
Motionless, his body bent forward, his right hand raised, his left hand closed upon the hilt of a dagger, the priest watched the king. The "Well-Beloved," uncertain as he may have been of the welcome which Gabrielle de Vernet would give to him, had determined that there should be no spectator of it. His few attendants had left him at the end of the gallery which gave access to the Salles des Chasses. The lackeys had done their work when they had spread the table. There was only the old man Dominique in the chamber, and he was dismissed with a word. Louis thought himself to be quite alone, and in this expectation he entered the supper-room with a brisk step.
He had expected to find Gabrielle de Vernet waiting there to receive him, and when he beheld the empty room, he stood for a moment uncertain how to act. Old as he was and wildly as he had lived, he yet preserved that superb dignity of bearing which had been his one merit for more than twenty years. It was possible still to speak of him as a handsome man; and now when the light fell full upon his coat of white and silver, and the jewels upon his vest gave back radiating beams, there was an air of kingship and of grace about him which was an ill contrast to the purpose of his coming.
Standing for a spell by the brilliantly-lighted table, the king listened for any sound or sign of the woman from whom he had expected greeting. When none was given to him, a curious smile began to play upon his face, and he crossed to the door of the inner room, peering into the gloom of it.
"The little witch is pleased to play with me," he muttered; "well, the game is amusing, and we shall see."
The smile left his face, and he puckered up his lips, biting them while he debated upon the situation. So close to the priest was he then that he could have touched him with