"He is my secretary, madame. We were at work as you came. I was on the point of inditing a letter to Her Majesty. The office of Seneschal in a province such as Dauphiny is helas!—no sinecure." He sighed like one whose brain is weary. "It leaves a man little time even to eat or sleep."
"You will be needing a holiday, then," said she, with cool insolence. "Take one for once, and let the King's business give place for half an hour to mine."
The secretary's horror grew by leaps and bounds.
Surely the storm would burst at last about this audacious woman's head. But the Lord Seneschal—usually so fiery and tempestuous—did no more than make her another of his absurd bows.
"You anticipate, madame, the very words I was about to utter. Babylas, vanish!" And he waved the scribbler doorwards with a contemptuous hand. "Take your papers with you—into my closet there. We will resume that letter to Her Majesty when madame shall have left me."
The secretary gathered up his papers, his quills, and his inkhorn, and went his way, accounting the end of the world at hand.
When the door had closed upon him, the Seneschal, with another bow and a simper, placed a chair at his visitor's disposal. She looked at the chair, then looked at the man much as she had looked at the chair, and turning her back contemptuously on both, she sauntered towards the fireplace. She stood before the blaze, with her whip tucked under her arm, drawing off her stout riding-gloves. She was a tall, splendidly proportioned woman, of a superb beauty of countenance, for all that she was well past the spring of life.
In the waning light of that October afternoon none would have guessed her age to be so much as thirty, though in the sunlight you might have set it at a little more. But in no light at all would you have guessed the truth, that her next would be her forty-second birthday. Her face was pale, of an ivory pallor that gleamed in sharp contrast with the ebony of her lustrous hair. Under the long lashes of low lids a pair of eyes black and insolent set off the haughty lines of her scarlet lips. Her nose was thin and straight, her neck an ivory pillar splendidly upright upon her handsome shoulders.
She was dressed for riding, in a gown of sapphire velvet, handsomely laced in gold across the stomacher, and surmounted at the neck, where it was cut low and square, by the starched band of fine linen which in France was already replacing the more elaborate ruff. On her head, over a linen coif, she wore a tall-crowned grey beaver, swathed with a scarf of blue and gold.
Standing by the hearth, one foot on the stone kerb, one elbow leaning lightly on the overmantel, she proceeded leisurely to remove her gloves.
The Seneschal observed her with eyes that held an odd mixture of furtiveness and admiration, his fingers—plump, indolent-looking stumps—plucking at his beard.
"Did you but know, Marquise, with what joy, with what a—"
"I will imagine it, whatever it may be," she broke in, with that brusque arrogance that marked her bearing. "The time for flowers of rhetoric is not now. There is trouble coming, man; trouble, dire trouble."
Up went the Seneschal's brows; his eyes grew wider.
"Trouble?" quoth he. And, having opened his mouth to give exit to that single word, open he left it.
She laughed lazily, her lip curling, her face twisting oddly, and mechanically she began to draw on again the glove she had drawn off.
"By your face I see how well you understand me," she sneered. "The trouble concerns Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye."
"From Paris—does it come from Court?" His voice was sunk.
She nodded. "You are a miracle of intuition today, Tressan."
He thrust his tiny tuft of beard between his teeth—a trick he had when perplexed or thoughtful. "Ah!" he exclaimed at last, and it sounded like an indrawn breath of apprehension. "Tell me more."
"What more is there to tell? You have the epitome of the story."
"But what is the nature of the trouble? What form does it take, and by whom are you advised of it?"
"A friend in Paris sent me word, and his messenger did his work well, else had Monsieur de Garnache been here before him, and I had not so much as had the mercy of this forewarning."
"Garnache?" quoth the Count. "Who is Garnache?"
"The emissary of the Queen-Regent. He has been dispatched hither by her to see that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye has justice and enlargement."
Tressan fell suddenly to groaning and wringing his hands a pathetic figure had it been less absurd.
"I warned you, madame! I warned you how it would end," he cried. "I told you—"
"Oh, I remember the things you told me," she cut in, scorn in her voice. "You may spare yourself their repetition. What is done is done, and I'll not—I would not—have it undone. Queen-Regent or no Queen-Regent, I am mistress at Condillac; my word is the only law we know, and I intend that so it shall continue."
Tressan looked at her in surprise. This unreasoning, feminine obstinacy so wrought upon him that he permitted himself a smile and a lapse into irony and banter.
"Parfaitement," said he, spreading his hands, and bowing. "Why speak of trouble, then?"
She beat her whip impatiently against her gown, her eyes staring into the fire. "Because, my attitude being such as it is, trouble will there be."
The Seneschal shrugged his shoulders, and moved a step towards her. He was cast down to think that he might have spared himself the trouble of donning his beautiful yellow doublet from Paris. She had eyes for no finery that afternoon. He was cast down, too, to think how things might go with him when this trouble came. It entered his thoughts that he had lain long on a bed of roses in this pleasant corner of Dauphiny, and he was smitten now with fear lest of the roses he should find nothing remaining but the thorns.
"How came the Queen-Regent to hear of—of mademoiselle's—ah—situation?" he inquired.
The Marquise swung round upon him in a passion.
"The girl found a dog of a traitor to bear a letter for her. That is enough. If ever chance or fate should bring him my way, by God! he shall hang without shrift."
Then she put her anger from her; put from her, too, the insolence and scorn with which so lavishly she had addressed him hitherto. Instead she assumed a suppliant air, her beautiful eyes meltingly set upon his face.
"Tressan," said she in her altered voice, "I am beset by enemies. But you will not forsake me? You will stand by me to the end—will you not, my friend? I can count upon you, at least?"
"In all things, madame," he answered, under the spell of her gaze. "What force does this man Garnache bring with him? Have you ascertained?"
"He brings none," she answered, triumph in her glance.
"None?" he echoed, horror in his. "None? Then—then—"
He tossed his arms to heaven, and stood a limp and shaken thing. She leaned forward, and regarded him stricken in surprise.
"Diable! What ails you?" she snapped. "Could I have given you better news?"
"If you could have given me worse, I cannot think what it might have been," he groaned. Then, as if smitten by a sudden notion that flashed a gleam of hope into this terrifying darkness that was settling down upon him, he suddenly looked up. "You mean to resist him?" he inquired.
She stared at him a second, then laughed, a thought unpleasantly.
"Pish! But you are mad," she scorned him. "Do you need ask if I intend to resist—I, with the strongest castle in Dauphiny? By God! sir, if you need to hear me say it, hear me then say that I shall resist him and as many as the Queen may send after him, for as long as one stone of Condillac shall stand upon another."
The Seneschal blew out his lips, and fell once more to the chewing of his beard.