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Yet Tignonville's tone when he spoke was grave enough. "You have heard," he said. "Do you blame us?" "I cannot," the minister answered, shivering. "I cannot." He had been for a while beyond the range of these feelings; and in the greenwood, under God's heaven, with the sunshine about him, they jarred on him.
M. de Tignonville's own cousin, Madame d'Yverne, the darling of the Louvre the day before, perished in the hands of the mob; and the sister of M. de Taverny, equally ill-fated, died in the same fashion, after being dragged through the streets. Madame Carlat, then, went not a whit beyond the mark in her argument. But Mademoiselle had made up her mind, and was not to be dissuaded.
And she rang a silver handbell and gave an order. She addressed the servant in her usual tone, but to Tignonville's ear her voice seemed to fall to a whisper.
You will not like to wait so long." M. de Tignonville's face fell ludicrously. "Well, no," he said. "I I don't think I could wait so long to-night." "Then come to-morrow night," Rochefoucauld answered, with good nature. "With pleasure," the other cried heartily, his relief evident. "Certainly. With pleasure." And, nodding good night, they parted.
He brought it, and carefully supporting Tignonville's head, laved his brow. "It is as I thought," he said, when he had stanched the blood. "You are not hurt, man. You are stunned. It is no more than a bruise." The young man was coming to himself. "But I thought " he muttered, and broke off to pass his hand over his face.
The snare is broken and we are delivered!" His voice shook as he whispered the ancient words of triumph. But when they came to look in the nest at Tignonville's feet there was no egg! And that troubled M. la Tribe no little, although he did not impart his thoughts to his companion.
They were holding a council, and they begged, nay, they compelled me to remain." "And it was that which detained you so long?" "To be sure, Mademoiselle." "And not Madame St. Lo?" M. de Tignonville's face turned scarlet. The thrust in tierce was unexpected. This, then, was the key to Mademoiselle's spirt of temper. "I do not understand you," he stammered.
He flung the last word at the quaking servants; then he turned again to the street. He saw that the crowd was melting, and, looking in Tignonville's face, he laughed aloud. "Does Monsieur sup with us?" he said. "To complete the party? Or will he choose to sup with our friends yonder? It is for him to say.
And he knew it; Tignonville's folly that and that only had led them into the snare and caused his own capture. But what had justice to do with the things of this world? In his experience, the strong hand that was justice, in France; and possession that was law. By the strong hand he had taken her, and by the strong hand she might have freed herself. And she had not. There was the incredible thing.
The sweat rose on Tignonville's brow as he stood listening, his arm round the girl as he stood listening and waiting. It is possible that when he had said a minute or two earlier that he would rather die a thousand times than live thus shamed, he had spoken beyond the mark. Or it is possible that he had meant his words to the full.
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