than even my own knowledge that I had lost the pass-key which should have admitted me to her confidence.
The stouter figure of the afternoon turned out to be a red-cheeked, sturdy woman of thirty, with bright black eyes and a manner which lost nothing of its fierce impatience when she came a little later to address me. All my ideas of Fanchette were upset by the appearance of this woman, who, rustic in her speech and ways, seemed more like a duenna, than the waiting-maid of a court beauty, and better fitted to guard a wayward damsel than to aid her in such an escapade as we had in hand.
She stood slightly behind her mistress, her coarse red hand resting on the back of the chair from which mademoiselle had apparently risen on my entrance. For a few seconds, which seemed minutes to me, we stood gazing at one another in silence, mademoiselle acknowledging my bow by a slight movement of the head. Then, seeing that they waited for me to speak, I did so.
‘Mademoiselle de la Vire?’ I murmured doubtfully.
She bent her head again; that was all.
I strove to speak with confidence. ‘You will pardon me, mademoiselle,’ I said, ‘if I seem to be abrupt, but time is everything. The horses are standing within a hundred yards of the house, and all the preparations for your flight are made. If we leave now, we can do so without opposition. The delay even of an hour may lead to discovery.’
For answer she laughed behind her mask-laughed coldly and ironically. ‘You go too fast, sir,’ she said, her low clear voice matching the laugh and rousing a feeling almost of anger in my heart. ‘I do not know you; or, rather, I know nothing of you which should entitle you to interfere in my affairs. You are too quick to presume, sir. You say you come from a friend. From whom?’
‘From one whom I am proud to call by that title,’ I answered with what patience I might.
‘His name!’
I answered firmly that I could not give it. And I eyed her steadily as I did so.
This for the moment seemed to baffle and confuse her, but after a pause she continued: ‘Where do you propose to take me, sir?’
‘To Blois; to the lodging of a friend of my friend.’
‘You speak bravely,’ she replied with a faint sneer. ‘You have made some great friends lately it seems! But you bring me some letter, no doubt; at least some sign, some token, some warranty, that you are the person you pretend to be, M. de Marsac?’
‘The truth is, Mademoiselle,’ I stammered, ‘I must explain. I should tell you—’
‘Nay, sir,’ she cried impetuously, ‘there is no need of telling. If you have what I say, show it me! It is you who lose time. Let us have no more words!’
I had used very few words, and, God knows, was not in the mind to use many; but, being in the wrong, I had no answer to make except the truth, and that humbly. ‘I had such a token as you mention, mademoiselle,’ I said, ‘no farther back than this afternoon, in the shape of half a gold coin, entrusted to me by my friend. But, to my shame I say it, it was stolen from me a few hours back.’
‘Stolen from you!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, mademoiselle; and for that reason I cannot show it,’ I answered.
‘You cannot show it? And you dare to come to me without it!’ she cried, speaking with a vehemence which fairly startled me, prepared as I was for reproaches. You come to me! You!’ she continued. And with that, scarcely stopping to take breath, she loaded me with abuse; calling me impertinent, a meddler, and a hundred other things, which I now blush to recall, and displaying in all a passion which even in her attendant would have surprised me, but in one so slight and seemingly delicate, overwhelmed and confounded me. In fault as I was, I could not understand the peculiar bitterness she displayed, or the contemptuous force of her language, and I stared at her in silent wonder until, of her own accord, she supplied the key to her feelings. In a fresh outburst of rage she snatched off her mask, and to my astonishment I saw before me the young maid of honour whom I had encountered in the King of Navarre’s antechamber, and whom I had been so unfortunate as to expose to the raillery of Mathurine.
‘Who has paid you, sir,’ she continued, clenching her small hands and speaking with tears of anger in her eyes, ‘to make me the laughing-stock of the Court? It was bad enough when I thought you the proper agent of those to whom I have a right to look for aid! It was bad enough when I thought myself forced, through their inconsiderate choice, to decide between an odious imprisonment and the ridicule to which your intervention must expose me! But that you should have dared, of your own notion, to follow me, you, the butt of the Court—’
‘Mademoiselle!’ I cried.
‘A needy, out-at-elbows adventurer!’ she persisted, triumphing in her cruelty. ‘It exceeds all bearing! It is not to be suffered! It—’
‘Nay, mademoiselle; you SHALL hear me!’ I cried, with a sternness which at last stopped her. ‘Granted I am poor, I am still a gentleman; yes, mademoiselle,’ I continued, firmly, ‘a gentleman, and the last of a family which has spoken with yours on equal terms. And I claim to be heard. I swear that when I came here to-night I believed you to be a perfect stranger! I was unaware that I had ever seen you, unaware that I had ever met you before.’
‘Then why did you come?’ she said viciously.
‘I was engaged to come by those whom you have mentioned, and there, and there only am I in fault. They entrusted to me a token which I have lost. For that I crave your pardon.’
‘You have need to,’ she answered bitterly, yet with a changed countenance, or I was mistaken, ‘if your story be true, sir.’
‘Ay, that you have!’ the woman beside her echoed.
‘Hoity toity, indeed! Here is a fuss about nothing. You call yourself a gentleman, and wear such a doublet as—’
‘Peace, Fanchette,’ mademoiselle said imperiously. And then for a moment she stood silent, eyeing me intently, her lips trembling with excitement and two red spots burning in her cheeks. It was clear from her dress and other things that she had made up her mind to fly had the token been forthcoming; and seeing this, and knowing how unwilling a young girl is to forgo her own way, I still had some hopes that she might not persevere in her distrust and refusal. And so it turned out.
Her manner had changed to one of quiet scorn when she next spoke. ‘You defend yourself skilfully, sir,’ she said, drumming with her fingers on the table and eyeing me steadfastly. ‘But can you give me any reason for the person you name making choice of such a messenger?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, boldly. ‘That he may not be suspected of conniving at your escape.’
‘Oh!’ she cried, with a spark of her former passion. ‘Then it is to be put about that Mademoiselle de la Vire had fled from Chize with M. de Marsac, is it? I thought that!’
‘Through the assistance of M. de Marsac,’ I retorted, correcting her coldly. ‘It is for you, mademoiselle,’ I continued, ‘to weigh that disadvantage against the unpleasantness of remaining here. It only remains for me to ask you to decide quickly. Time presses, and I have stayed here too long already.’
The words had barely passed my lips when they received unwelcome confirmation in the shape of a distant sound—the noisy
