So these fiends had decided it between them, and they had put their idea into execution for one whole week. Marguerite looked at Chauvelin as she would on some monstrous, inscrutable Sphinx, marveling if God--even in His anger--could really have created such a fiendish brain, or, having created it, could allow it to wreak such devilry unpunished.
Even now she felt that he was enjoying the mental anguish which he had put upon her, and she saw his thin, evil lips curled into a smile.
"So you came to-night to tell me all this?" she asked as soon as she could trust herself to speak. Her impulse was to shriek out her indignation, her horror of him, into his face. She longed to call down God's eternal curse upon this fiend; but instinctively she held herself in check. Her indignation, her words of loathing would only have added to his delight.
"You have had your wish," she added coldly; "now, I pray you, go."
"Your pardon, Lady Blakeney," he said with all his habitual blandness; "my object in coming to see you tonight was twofold.
Methought that I was acting as your friend in giving you authentic news of Sir Percy, and in suggesting the possibility of your adding your persuasion to ours."
"My persuasion? You mean that I--"
"You would wish to see your husband, would you not, Lady Blakeney?"
"Yes."
"Then I pray you command me. I will grant you the permission whenever you wish to go."
"You are in the hope, citizen," she said, "that I will do my best to break my husband's spirit by my tears or my prayers--is that it?"
"Not necessarily," he replied pleasantly. "I assure you that we can manage to do that ourselves, in time."
"You devil!" The cry of pain and of horror was involuntarily wrung from the depths of her soul. "Are you not afraid that God's hand will strike you where you stand?"
"No," he said lightly; "I am not afraid, Lady Blakeney. You see, I do not happen to believe in God. Come!" he added more seriously, "have I not proved to you that my offer is disinterested? Yet I repeat it even now. If you desire to see Sir Percy in prison, command me, and the doors shall be open to you."
She waited a moment, looking him straight and quite dispassionately in the face; then she said coldly:
"Very well! I will go."
"When?" he asked.
"This evening."
"Just as you wish. I would have to go and see my friend Heron first, and arrange with him for your visit."
"Then go. I will follow in half an hour."
"C'est entendu. Will you be at the main entrance of the Conciergerie at half-past nine? You know it, perhaps--no? It is in the Rue de la Barillerie, immediately on the right at the foot of the great staircase of the house of Justice."
"Of the house of Justice!" she exclaimed involuntarily, a world of bitter contempt in her cry. Then she added in her former matter-of-fact tones:
"Very good, citizen. At half-past nine I will be at the entrance you name."
"And I will be at the door prepared to escort you."
He took up his hat and coat and bowed ceremoniously to her. Then he turned to go. At the door a cry from her--involuntarily enough, God knows!--made him pause.
"My interview with the prisoner," she said, vainly try mg, poor soul! to repress that quiver of anxiety in her voice, "it will be private?"
"Oh, yes! Of course," he replied with a reassuring smile. "Au revoir, Lady Blakeney! Half-past nine, remember--"
She could no longer trust herself to look on him as he finally took his departure. She was afraid--yes, absolutely afraid that her fortitude would give way--meanly, despicably, uselessly give way; that she would suddenly fling herself at the feet of that sneering, inhuman wretch, that she would pray, implore--Heaven above! what might she not do in the face of this awful reality, if the last lingering shred of vanishing reason, of pride, and of courage did not hold her in check?
Therefore she forced herself not to look on that departing, sable-clad figure, on that evil face, and those hands that held Percy's fate in their cruel grip; but her ears caught the welcome sound of his departure--the opening and shutting of the door, his light footstep echoing down the stone stairs.
When at last she felt that she was really alone she uttered a loud cry like a wounded doe, and falling on her knees she buried her face in her hands in a passionate fit of weeping. Violent sobs shook her entire frame; it seemed as if an overwhelming anguish was tearing at her heart--the physical pain of it was almost unendurable. And yet even through this paroxysm of tears her mind clung to one root idea: when she saw Percy she must be brave and calm, be able to help him if he wanted her, to do his bidding if there was anything that she could do, or any message that she could take to the others. Of hope she had none. The last lingering ray of it had been extinguished by that fiend when he said, "We need not fear that he will escape. I doubt if he could walk very steadily across this room now."
