Lagardere interrupted him: "Monseigneur, he is going to say that that
packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de Nevers--but
there is more than that."
Louis of Orleans turned his steady gaze on Louis of Gonzague, and read
little to comfort him in the twitching face of his life-long friend.
"Break the seals, Louis," he commanded.
Lagardere spoke, exultingly: "Yes, break the seals and read your doom,
assassin. The packet contains only the birth-lines of Mademoiselle de
Nevers, but still it contains the proof I ask. As Nevers lay dying in my
arms, he dipped his finger in his blood and traced on the parchment the
name of his murderer. Open the packet and see what name is there."
Now, while he was speaking, Gonzague began to tremble like a man that has
the trembling sickness; but as Lagardere continued he seemed by a
desperate effort to stiffen himself, and, moving slowly, unobserved by
those present, who were for the most part busy with looking upon
Lagardere, he neared a candelabrum. As Lagardere uttered his last
command, Gonzague thrust the packet that he held into the flame of the
candle, and in a moment the flame ran along the paper, lapping it and
consuming it. The king and Lagardere both saw the despairing deed.
The king was the first to speak. "Louis!" he cried, and could say no
more.
Gonzague dropped the burning paper from his fingers, and it fell in ashes
upon the floor.
Lagardere lifted his sword in triumph. "The dead speaks! There was
nothing written on that paper. His name was not there, but his own deed
has set it there."
The eyes of all were fixed upon the face of Gonzague, and the face of
Gonzague was an ugly sight to see. Hatred and despair struggled there for
mastery--hatred and despair, and the hideous sense of hopeless,
ignominious, public failure after a lifetime of triumphant crime.
"Louis!" cried the king again. "Louis! Assassin!"
In a moment Gonzague's sword was unsheathed, and he leaped across the
space that divided him from Lagardere, striking furiously for Lagardere's
heart. But Lagardere was ready for him, and, with a familiar trick of the
fencing-schools, wrenched Gonzague's weapon from his fingers and flung it
to the floor. A dozen hands seized Gonzague--the hands of those that once
had been proud to call themselves his friends.
Lagardere turned to the king, appealingly: "Monseigneur, I cry a favor.
Let me support this quarrel with my sword, and God defend the right."
The king was silent for a few seconds, trying to set himself right with a
world that had suddenly changed for him. Surely, it would be better to
let it end so, whatever came of it. He turned to Lagardere, and bowed his
head in silent approval: "As you will."
Suddenly, then, the Princess de Gonzague, clinging to the child in her
arms, cried out, calling to Chavernay: "Monsieur de Chavernay, in yonder
alcove lies the sword of my dead husband. Fetch it, and give it to
Monsieur de Lagardere."
In a frightful silence Chavernay crossed the room, entered the alcove,
and came forth holding the sword of Louis de Nevers in his hand--the
sword that Louis de Nevers had used so valiantly on the night of Caylus.
Silently he offered it to Lagardere, and silently Lagardere, giving the
weapon he held to Cocardasse, took the sword of Nevers from the hands of
Chavernay. Thereafter Lagardere stooped and picked up the fallen sword of
Gonzague. Then, advancing towards his enemy, he made a sign to those that
held him to release their captive--a sign that was immediately obeyed. He
held out the weapon by its blade to Gonzague, who caught it. In another
moment the two men were engaged in combat.
On the walls the impassive portraits of the Three Louis looked on while
one of the Three Louis fought for his shameful life, while another of the
Three Louis sat in heart-broken judgment upon him, and while the widow of
another of the Three Louis sat clasping in her arms the child she had
surrendered in the moat of Caylus so many years ago.
Gonzague was a fine swordsman, and Gonzague fought for his life, but he
did not fight long. Suddenly Lagardere's arm and Lagardere's sword seemed
to extend, the blade gleamed in the flare of the flambeaux, and Gonzague
reeled and dropped.
"Nine," said Cocardasse, thoughtfully.
Passepoil placed his forefinger between his brows. "The thrust of
Nevers," he murmured.
Lagardere lifted his blood-dyed sword and saluted the picture of Louis of
Nevers. "After the lackeys the master. Nevers, I have kept my word."
Then he let fall his weapon, for the soft arms of Gabrielle were about
his neck.