“I wish you all happiness, Vibrac, if it is as I think. More happiness than has fallen to me!” “You! You are the most fortunate of men.” He laughed shortly and sadly. “Fortunate! Do you call that man fortunate who has seen his wife’s love pass from him?” “Pass from him?” “Yes! Do you call that man happy who, loving his wife as I do, sees day by day a gulf opening between them. Bah! You must have known all this--you, and all the rest. Else why do I live in the Rue Bourgogne and my wife at the Louvre?” “It will pass away. There must be some mistake.” “It will pass when I die--and I have sought for death for long. God knows! I would have let myself be taken to-day but that she herself wrote to warn me--and that letter which I have here” (he placed his hand to his heart) “has given me some hope. It came to me like a ray of sunshine--she would not have written if she did not care.” I felt my forehead burn with shame. I was as yet too new at the game to play the villain without remorse. For an instant, when I thought of what this man had been to me, my old leader, my friend, I saw my infamy in all its meanness, and I was within an ace of telling him all, and asking him to slay me where I stood; and then, like lightning, there came to me the other thought--no--I would not yield her--for her I would pay any price. But I could not bear to have the man before me longer. It was unendurable, and to cover the expression on my face I stepped to the window. “It rains,” I said for want of something to say, and he was by my side in a moment. “There is nothing like rain to clear the streets and give us a chance. Let us go now.” I turned on him almost savagely. “I have an appointment that I must keep; that I will keep if I die for it; but you, Marcilly--why stay? Outside Paris there is safety, and as you yourself have said, you have begun to hope again. There is danger here, but danger that I must face. Take my advice and go now.” “I cannot desert you.” I blazed up in sudden wrath. Would I never be free of this accusing presence? “Monsieur le Comte, I have not asked your aid--my business is private.” We stared at each other, surprise and anger in his glance. For an instant I almost hoped he was going to draw on me, for there was no more fierce spirit than Jean de Marcilly; but he controlled himself with a mighty effort. “Forgive me, Gaspard!” he said, “we are too old in friendship to quarrel. _Au revoir!_ I will meet you at the Porte St. Victor.” “No!” I said, “I cannot promise to be there. Ride straight from Paris--go straight to the Prince. There are blows to be struck. I---I will join you later. But leave me now. This house is no refuge, and our ways must be separate.” “I will wait in any case until compline at the Porte St. Victor,” he repeated, and held out his hand. I nerved myself to take it, and two minutes later saw him trot out of the courtyard into the street. CHAPTER II THE RUE DES LAVANDIERES