Part 42 (2/2)
Madame had apparently come forth in some haste I could see.
”Orrain,” she said, her face half turned from me, for she was looking at her bird, ”whatever brings you here? Is it anything from Sire Grosse-Tete?” And then an exclamation broke from her, and she stopped short, for she saw me.
”You!” she said. ”I thought it was the Vidame d'Orrain.”
”A mistake, madame, in announcing me, perhaps, which I regard as the most fortunate in my life.” And I bowed before her.
So bad, so worthless was this woman, that she utterly mistook my speech.
”True! Leila said Monsieur d'Orrain--but I thought it was your brother.”
I made no answer, and she glanced at me, the colour rising to her cheeks, and a smile on her lips, as she went on:
”'Tis a thousand pities, Monsieur le Chevalier, that you have taken the wrong side; and by rights I should strike that gong there and call my guards, for you are dangerous, they say; but,” and she sank languorously down in the cus.h.i.+ons, her pet now on her wrist, ”'tis a warm day, and I feel bored. Do I not, Vert-Vert? Perhaps monsieur here will amuse me.” And she stroked the feathers of the bird, and bending down kissed it.
”Madame,” I began; but she glanced up, and stayed me with a laugh.
”What a voice! As severe as my dear De Mouchy's when he delivers a judgment; but, Chevalier, Leila, my Syrian maid, always tells me 'tis easier to sit than to stand, and there is room on these cus.h.i.+ons--come!” And stretching out a shapely white arm she let it rest on the amber-hued silk of the cus.h.i.+ons by her side.
As I gazed on the temptress lying at my feet the thought came to me to slay her in her sin; and perhaps she saw the sombre light in my eyes, and read my heart, for she drew her arm back swiftly, and half rose; but mastering myself I gave her her chance.
”Madame, I have come to beg your mercy----”
”You!” And she sank back again on her cus.h.i.+ons.
”Yes, madame! I have come to ask for a life.”
”Not yours, surely? It never was Orrain's way.” And she smiled.
”Ay; it is my life ten times over, as well as another's; but you know whom I mean, madame! She is innocent, and a word from you will save her.”
”Oh, monsieur, you overrate my power! And this is not amusing. It is too hot to talk of such things.”
”Madame, be merciful! Spare her! She never harmed you.”
”What!” And tossing the bird from her she rose to her feet, lithe as a pantheress. So perfectly was she formed that one did not realise how tall she was until she came near; and she was close enough to me now, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng with a hundred evil, angry lights.
”She never harmed me? Never hurt me? She! That white-faced provincial, with her airs of virtue, who tried to shame me in public!
Look you, I hate that woman! Do you hear? I hate her--hate her! If by the lifting of my little finger I could save her, do you think I would? Never! Let her die! And she shall die, as Philippine de Lune did----”
”Madame!”
”And you!” she burst in, ”insolent that you are!--you! who have dared to come here! Think you that you will go free?”
”Enough, madame! I no longer appeal to your pity.”
She had half turned from me, and made a step towards the gong as if to strike it, but faced back like lightning, womanlike determined to have the last word.
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