“Perhaps we may hang Lescot and Thuriot”
“But I see no way out,” the Provost babbled. “No way! No way!”
“I am going to show you one,” Tavannes retorted. “If the gibbets are not in place by sunrise, I shall hang you from this window. That is one way out; and you’ll be wise to take the other! For the rest and for your comfort, if I have no letters, it is not always to paper that the King commits his inmost heart.”
The magistrate bowed. He quaked, he doubted, but he had no choice.
“My lord,” he said, “I put myself in your hands. It shall be done, certainly it shall be done. But, but” and shaking his head in foreboding, he turned to the door.
At the last moment, when he was within a pace of it, the Countess rose impulsively to her feet. She called to him.
“M. le Prévôt, a minute, if you please,” she said. “There may be trouble to-morrow; your daughter may be in some peril. You will do well to send her to me. My lord”—and on the word her voice, uncertain before, grew full and steady—“will see that I am safe. And she will be safe with me.”
The Provost saw before him only a gracious lady, moved by a thoughtfulness unusual in persons of her rank. He was at no pains to explain the flame in her cheek, or the soft light which glowed in her eyes, as she looked at him across her formidable husband. He was only profoundly grateful—moved even to tears. Humbly thanking her, he accepted her offer for his child, and withdrew wiping his eyes. When he was gone, and the door had closed behind him, Tavannes turned to the Countess, who still kept her feet.
“You are very confident this evening,” he sneered. “Gibbets do not frighten you, it seems, madame. Perhaps if you knew for whom the one before the door is intended?”
