Gonzague was left alone, indeed, only in a sense, for on a sudden the
great hall with its famous pictures had become the theatre of fierce
emotions and menacing presences. Just at the moment when Gonzague
believed his schemes to be at their best and his fortunes to be nearing
their top, he was suddenly threatened with the renewal of the old terror
that had been kept at bay through all the years that had passed since the
night of Caylus. Through all these years Lagardere had been kept from
Paris, at the cost, indeed, as he believed, of many lives, but that was a
price Louis de Gonzague was always prepared to pay when the protection of
his own life was in question. Now it would seem as if Lagardere had
broken his exile, had forced his way through the thicket of swords, and
was again in Paris. Nor was this the worst. Just when Gonzague, after all
his failures to trace the missing child of his victim, just when he had
so ingeniously found a substitute for that missing child, it would really
seem as if the child herself, now a woman, had come to Paris to defy him
and to destroy his plans. He sat huddled with black thoughts for a time
which seemed to him an age, but was in reality not more than a few
moments; then, extending his hand, he struck a bell and a servant
entered.
"Tell Peyrolles I want him," the prince commanded, and was again alone
with his dreads and his dangers until Peyrolles appeared. Gonzague turned
to his factotum. "I have reason to suspect that Lagardere is in Paris. If
it be true, he will come too late. The princess will have accepted the
gypsy as her child, the mother's voice will have spoken. If Lagardere is
in Paris, he and the girl must be found, and once found--"
The ivory-like face of Peyrolles was quickened with a cunning look. "I
have a man who will find him if any one can."