Gonzague was startled by this sudden hostility to his scheme, but spoke
with respectful earnestness: "Madame," he said, slowly, "we have
depositions, sworn to and duly attested in Madrid, that this girl, then a
year-old child, was given to a band of gypsies by a man whose description
coincides exactly with that of one of the men believed to have been
concerned in the attack upon Louis de Nevers in the moat of Caylus. We
have their statements that in their hearing the man called the child
Gabrielle, that he said to the head gypsy that she was of noble birth,
and that he gave her up to them because he wished the child to suffer
for the hate he bore her father. All this and more than this we can
prove. For my part, I say that in this girl's lineaments I seem to see
again the features of my dear dead friend. Madame, to reject the child
whom we believe to be the daughter of Nevers, you must have reasons grave
indeed--the strongest proofs. Have you such reasons, such proofs?"
From behind the curtain a voice travelled to the princess's ears,
murmuring, "Yes," and the princess repeated, "Yes," confidently.
Gonzague drew himself up with a look of pain and sorrow. "I understand,
madame. Some impostor, speculating upon your sorrow, has told you that he
has found your child."
Chavernay whispered behind his hand to Navailles: "Our cousin is losing
his temper."
As the princess kept silent, Gonzague pressed his question: "Is that not
so, madame? Speak! Is this not so? Some one has told you that she is
alive?"
The princess heard the voice behind the curtain whisper: "She lives."
Looking steadily at Gonzague, she said: "She lives, in spite of you, by
the grace of God."
The agitation of the audience was very great. The king directly addressed
the princess: "Can you produce her?"
Again the voice whispered to the Princess, "Yes," and again the Princess
repeated, "Yes," as confidently as before.
"When?" asked the king, to whom Gonzague had at once yielded the
privilege of question.
The voice whispered, "To-night," and the princess repeated the words.
The voice whispered again, "At the ball in the Palais Royal," and again
the Princess echoed it, "At the ball in the Palais Royal."
The king had no more to say; he was silent. Gonzague groaned aloud as he
turned to Flora. "My poor child, only God can give you back the heart of
your mother."
The girl, with the quick impulsiveness of her race, again flung herself
on her knees before the princess, while she cried: "Madame, whether you
are my mother or not, I respect you, I love you!"
The princess laid her hand gently on the girl's dark hair. "My child, my
child, I believe you are no accomplice of this crime. I wish you well."
Flora was now sobbing bitterly, and seemed unable to rise. Peyrolles
hastened to her side, hastened to lift her to her feet, and hurriedly
conducted the weeping girl from the room. The princess, holding her head
high, turned and addressed the king: "Your majesty, my mourning ends
to-day. I have recovered my daughter. I shall be your guest to-night,
sire."
The king bowed profoundly. "Believe that we shall be most proud to
welcome you."
The princess made him a reverence and turned to leave the room. The king
quitted his chair, hastened to her side, and gave her his arm to the
door. When she had departed, Louis of France hastened to Gonzague where
he stood alone, the centre of wondering eyes. "What is the meaning of
this double discovery?" he asked.
Gonzague shook his head with the air of one who is faced by a shameful
conspiracy, but who is not afraid to face it. "I have found Nevers's
child. Who the impostor is I do not know, but I shall know--and then--"
He paused, but his menacing silence was more impressive than any speech.
The king wrung his friend's hand warmly. "I hope you may. Till to-night,
gentlemen."
All were standing now. The king embraced the company in a general
salutation and went out, followed by his friends. The lawyers, the
ecclesiastics took their leave. Only the friends of Gonzague remained in
the room, and they stood apart, eying their master dubiously, uncertain
whether he would wish them to go or to stay. Chavernay took it upon
himself, with his usual lightness of heart, to play their spokesman. He
advanced to Gonzague and addressed him.
"Can we condole with you on this game of cross-purposes?"
Gonzague turned to Chavernay, and his countenance was calm, bold, almost
smiling. "No. I shall win the game. We shall meet to-night. Perhaps I
shall need your swords."
"Now, as ever, at your service," Navailles protested, and the rest
murmured their agreement with the speaker. Then Gonzague's partisans
slowly filed out of the room, Chavernay, as usual, smiling, the others
unusually grave. Gonzague turned to Peyrolles, who had returned from his
task of convoying Flora to her apartments. "Who has done all this?" he
asked.
He thought he was alone with his henchman, but he was mistaken. Æsop had
quietly entered the room, and was standing at his side. Æsop answered the
question addressed to Peyrolles. "I can tell you. The man you can neither
find nor bind."