That these orders to Le Monarque had been forestalled by milor Eglinton could not exonerate Madame la Marquise from having been at one with Gaston de Stainville and Madame de Pompadour, and others who might remain nameless, in the blackest treachery ever planned against a trusting friend.

No wonder Gaston de Stainville forgot physical suffering when he toyed lovingly with this packet of papers in his hand, the consummation of his revenge.

At last 'twas done. A subtle, indefinable change had come over the calm face of Lord Eglinton, an ashen grey hue which had chased the former pallor of the cheeks, and the slender hand, which held the pistol, trembled almost imperceptibly.

Serenity had given way at sight of that packet of papers.

"Friend de Mortémar," said Gaston lightly, but with glowing eyes still fixed on his opponent, "the chances of my demise being at least equal to those of milor's – seeing that I know not, on my honour, which is the loaded pistol, and that methinks at this moment I can read murder in his eye – I pray you to take charge of this packet. It is a sacred trust. In case of my death promise me that you will deliver it into the hands of my wife, and into no other. Madame la Comtesse de Stainville will know how to deal with it."

The young Comte de Mortémar took the packet from Gaston.

"I will do as you desire," he said coldly.

"You promise that no one shall touch these papers except my wife, Irène Comtesse de Stainville," reiterated Gaston solemnly.

"On my word of honour," rejoined the young man.

The request was perfectly proper and natural, very usual in such cases; de Mortémar could not help but comply. He could not know that the fulfilment of this promise would mean public dishonour to an innocent and noble woman, and the supreme revenge of a baffled traitor.

If Gaston expected protest, rage, or excitement from his foe he was certainly disappointed. Eglinton had all the characteristics of his race, perfect sang-froid in the face of the inevitable, and an almost morbid consciousness of pride and dignity. He could not filch those papers from Gaston nor prevent de Mortémar from accepting and fulfilling a trust, which had all the appearance of being sacred.

He knew that by this act he had wrested a fortune from a man whose fetish was money, and the power which money gives: true that being an honest man himself, he had never thought of such an infamous revenge.

If he died now Heaven help his proud Lydie! but if he lived then Heaven help them both!

CHAPTER XXXVII
THE LETTER

De Mortémar had stowed the packet carefully away inside his coat, Gaston keenly watching his antagonist the while.

"Are you ready, milor?" he asked now with marked insolence of manner.

"At your service," replied the other quietly. "M. de Mortémar, will you give the word?"

The two men stood opposite to one another, a table not four feet wide between them. Each held a pistol in his left hand. Of these one was loaded, the other not. De Mortémar had cleared the table, pushing aside the decanter of wine, the tureen of soup, the glasses. The window was still open, and from that outside world which to these men here present seemed so far away, there came the sound of the old church belfry tolling the hour of eight, and still from afar that melancholy tune, the Norman ditty sung by young throats:

"C'est les Normands, qu'à dit ma mère,
"C'est les Normands qu'ont conquis l'Angleterre!"

"Fire!" said de Mortémar.

Two arms were raised. Eye was fixed to eye for one brief second, then lowered for the aim. There was a slight dull sound, then a terrible curse muttered below the breath, as the pistol which Gaston de Stainville had vainly tried to fire dropped from his hand.

Had his excitement blinded him when he chose his weapon, or was it just fate, ruthless, inscrutable, that had placed the loaded pistol in Lord Eglinton's hand?

"A blank!" he shouted with a blasphemous oath. "À vous, milor! Curse you, why don't you fire?"

"Fire, milor, in Heaven's name," said Mortémar, who was as pale as death. "'Tis cruelty to prolong."

But Eglinton too had dropped his arm.

"M. le Comte de Stainville," he said calmly, "before I use this weapon against you, as I would against a mad dog, I'll propose a bargain for your acceptance."

"You'd buy that packet of precious documents from me, eh?" sneered Gaston savagely, "nay, milor, 'tis no use offering millions to a dying man… Shoot, shoot, milor! the widowed Comtesse de Stainville will deal with those documents and no one else… They are not for sale, I tell you, not for all your millions now!"

"Not even for this pistol, M. le Comte?"

And calm, serene with that whimsical smile again playing round the corners of his expressive mouth, Lord Eglinton offered the loaded pistol to his enemy.

"My life?." stammered Gaston, "you would?."

"Nay, mine, M. le Comte," rejoined milor. "I'll not stir from this spot. I offer you this pistol and you shall use it at your pleasure, after you have handed me that packet of letters."

Instinctively Gaston had drawn back, lost in a maze of surprise.

"An you'll not take the weapon, M. le Comte," said Eglinton decisively, "I shoot."

There was a moment's silence, whilst Gaston's pride fought a grim battle with that awful instinct of self-preservation, that strange love of fleeting life to which poor mortals cling.

Men were not cowards in those days; life was cheap and oft sold for the gratification of petty vanity, yet who shall blame Gaston if, with certain death before him, he chose to forego his revenge?

"Give me that pistol, milor," he said dully, "de Mortémar, hand over that packet to Lord Eglinton."

He took the pistol from milor, and it was his own hand that trembled.

Silently de Mortémar obeyed. Milor took the packet of papers from him, then held them one by one to the flame of the candle: first the map, then the letter which bore Lydie's name writ so boldly across it. The black ash curled and fell from his hand on to the table, he gripped the paper until his seared fingers could hold it no longer.

Then he once more stood up, turning straight toward Gaston.

"I am ready, M. le Comte," he said simply.

Gaston raised his left arm and fired. There was a wild, an agonized shriek which came from a woman's throat, coupled with one of horror from de Mortémar's lips, as le petit Anglais stood for the space of a few seconds, quite still, firm and upright, with scarce a change upon his calm face, then sank forward without a groan.

"Madame, you are hurt!" shouted de Mortémar, who was almost dazed with surprise at the sight of a woman at this awful and supreme moment. He had just seen her, in the vivid flash when Gaston raised his arm and fired: she had rushed forward then, with the obvious intention of throwing herself before the murderous weapon, and now was making pathetic and vain efforts to raise her husband's inanimate body from the table against which he had fallen.

"Coward! coward!" she sobbed in anguish, "you have stilled the bravest heart in France!"

"Pray God that I have not," murmured Gaston fervently, as, impelled by some invisible force, he threw the pistol from him, then sank on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

But Mortémar had soon recovered his presence of mind, and had already reached his wounded friend, calling quickly to Jean Marie who apparently had followed in the wake of Madame la Marquise in her wild rush from her coach to the inner room.

Together the two men succeeded in lifting Lord Eglinton and in gently insinuating his body backward into a recumbent position. Thus Lydie – still on her knees – received her lord in her arms. Her eyes were fixed upon his pallid face with passionate intensity. It seemed as if she would wrest from those closed lids the secret of life or death.

"He'll not die?." she whispered wildly; "tell me that he'll not die!"

A deep red stain was visible on the left side, spreading on the fine cloth of the coat. With clumsy though willing fingers, Mortémar was doing his best to get the waistcoat open, and to stop temporarily the rapid flow of blood with Lydie's scarf, which she had wrenched from her shoulders.

"Quick, Jean Marie! the leech!" he ordered, "and have the rooms prepared."

Then, as Jean Marie obeyed with unusual alacrity and anon his stentorian voice calling to ostler and maids echoed through the silence of the house, Lydie's eyes met those of the young man.

"Madame! Madame! I beseech you," he said appalled at the terrible look of agony expressed on the beautiful, marble-like face, "let me attend you.. I vow that you are hurt."

"No! no!" she rejoined quickly, "only my hand.. I tried to clutch the weapon.. but 'twas too late."

But she yielded her hand to him. The shot had indeed pierced the fleshy portion between thumb and forefinger, leaving an ugly gash: the wound was bleeding profusely and already she felt giddy and sick. De Mortémar bound up the little hand with his handkerchief as best he could. She hardly heeded him, beyond that persistent appeal, terrible in its heartrending pathos:

"He'll not die.. tell me that he'll not die."

Whilst not five paces away, Gaston de Stainville still knelt, praying that the ugly stain of murder should not for ever sully his hand.

CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE HOME IN ENGLAND

The first words which milor uttered when presently consciousness returned were:

"The letter.. Madonna.. 'tis destroyed.. I swear.."

He was then lying in Jean Marie's best bed, between lavender-scented sheets. On his right a tiny open window afforded a glimpse of sea and sky, and of many graceful craft gently lolling on the breast of the waves, but on his left, when anon he turned his eyes that way, there was a picture which of a truth was not of this earth, and vaguely, with the childish and foolish fancy of a sick man who hath gazed on the dark portals, he allowed himself to think that all the old tales of his babyhood, about the first glimpse of paradise after death, must indeed be true.

He was dead and this was paradise.

What he saw was a woman's face, with grave anxious eyes fixed upon him, and a woman's smile which revealed an infinity of love and promised an infinity of happiness.

"Madonna!" he murmured feebly. Then he closed his eyes again, for he was weak from loss of blood and from days and nights of fever and delirium, and he was so afraid that the vision might vanish if he gazed at it too long.

The leech – a kindly man – visited him frequently. Apparently the wound was destined to heal. Life was to begin anew, with its sorrows, its disappointments, its humiliations, mayhap.

Yet a memory haunted him persistently – a vision, oh! 'twas a mere flash – of his madonna standing with her dear, white hand outstretched, betwixt him and death.

It was a vision, of course; such as are vouchsafed to the dying: and the other picture? – nay! that was a fevered dream; there had been no tender, grave eyes that watched him, no woman's smile to promise happiness.

One day M. le Duc d'Aumont came to visit him. He had posted straight from Paris, and was singularly urbane and anxious when he pressed the sick man's hand.

"You must make a quick recovery, milor," he said cordially; "par Dieu! you are the hero of the hour. Mortémar hath talked his fill."

"I trust not," rejoined Eglinton gravely.

M. le Duc looked conscious and perturbed.

"Nay! he is a gallant youth," he said reassuringly, "and knows exactly how to hold his tongue, but Belle-Isle and de Lugeac had to be taught a lesson.. and 'twas well learned I'll warrant you… As for Gaston.."

"Yes! M. le Duc? what of M. le Comte de Stainville?"

"He hath left the Court momentarily.. somewhat in disgrace.. 'twas a monstrous encounter, milor," added the Duke gravely. "Had Gaston killed you it had been murder, for you never meant to shoot, so says de Mortémar."

The sick man's head turned restlessly on the pillow.

"De Mortémar's tongue hath run away with him," he said impatiently.

"The account of the duel.. nothing more, on my honour," rejoined the Duke. "No woman's name has been mentioned, but I fear me the Court and public have got wind of the story of a conspiracy against the Stuart prince, and connect the duel with that event – hence your popularity, milor," continued the older man with a sigh, "and Gaston's disgrace."

"His Majesty's whipping-boy, eh? the scapegoat in the aborted conspiracy?"

"Poor Gaston! You bear him much ill-will, milor, no doubt?"

"I? None, on my honour."

M. le Duc hesitated a while, a troubled look appeared on his handsome face.

"Lydie," he said tentatively. "Milor, she left Paris that night alone.. and travelled night and day to reach Le Havre in time to help you and to thwart Gaston.. she had been foolish of course, but her motives were pure.. milor, she is my child and."

"She is my wife, M. le Duc," interrupted Lord Eglinton gravely; "I need no assurance of her purity even from her father."

There was such implicit trust, such complete faith expressed in those few simple words, that instinctively M. le Duc d'Aumont felt ashamed that he could ever have misunderstood his daughter. He was silent for a moment or two, then he said more lightly:

"His Majesty is much angered of course."

"Against me, I hope," rejoined Eglinton.

"Aye!" sighed the Duke. "King Louis is poorer by fifteen million livres by your act, milor."

"And richer by the kingdom of honour. As for the millions, M. le Duc, I'll place them myself at His Majesty's service. My château and dependencies of Choisy are worth that," added milor lightly. "As soon as this feeble hand can hold a pen, I'll hand them over to the crown of France as a free gift."

"You will do that, milor?" gasped the Duke, who could scarce believe his ears.

"'Tis my firm intention," rejoined the sick man with a smile.

A great weight had been lifted from M. le Duc's mind. Royal displeasure would indeed have descended impartially on all the friends of "le petit Anglais" and above all on milor's father-in-law, whose very presence at Court would of a surety have become distasteful to the disappointed monarch. Now this unparalleled generosity would more than restore Louis' confidence in a Prime Minister whose chief virtue consisted in possessing so wealthy and magnanimous a son-in-law.

Indeed we know that M. le Duc d'Aumont continued for some time after these memorable days to enjoy the confidence and gratitude of Louis the Well-beloved and to bask in the sunshine of Madame de Pompadour's smiles, whilst the gift of the château and dependencies of Choisy by Milor the Marquis of Eglinton to the crown of France was made the subject of a public fête at Versailles and of an ode by M. Jolyot Crébillon of the Institut de France, writ especially for the occasion.

But after the visit of M. le Duc d'Aumont at his bedside in the "auberge des Trois Matelots" the munificent donor of fifteen millions livres felt over-wearied of life.

The dream which had soothed his fevered sleep no longer haunted his waking moments, and memory had much ado to feed love of life with the rememberance of one happy moment.

Milor the Marquis of Eglinton closed his eyes, sighing for that dream. The little room was so still, so peaceful, and from the tiny window a gentle breeze from across the English Channel fanned his aching brow, bringing back with its soothing murmur the memory of that stately home in England, for which his father had so often sighed.

How peaceful it must be there among the hills!

The breeze murmured more persistently, and anon with its dreamlike sound there mingled the frou-frou of a woman's skirts.

The sick man ventured to open his eyes.

Lydie, his wife, was kneeling beside his bed, her delicate hands clasped under her chin, her eyes large, glowing and ever grave fixed upon his face.

"Am I on earth?" he murmured quaintly.

"Of a truth, milor," she replied, and her voice was like the most exquisite music he had ever heard; it was earnest and serious like her own self, but there was a tremor in it which rendered it unspeakably soft.

"The leech saith there's no longer any danger for your life," she added.

He was silent for awhile, as if he were meditating on a grave matter, then he said quietly:

"Would you have me live, Lydie?"

And as she did not reply, he repeated his question again:

"Do you wish me to live, Lydie?"

She fought with the tears, which against her will gathered in her eyes.

"Milor, milor, are you not cruel now?" she whispered through those tears.

"Cruel of a truth," he replied earnestly, "since you would have saved me at peril of your own dear life… Yet would I gladly die to see you happy."

"Will you not rather live, milor?" she said with a smile of infinite tenderness, "for then only could I taste happiness."

"Yet if I lived, you would have to give up so much that you love."

"That is impossible, milor, for I only love one thing."

"Your work in France?" he asked.

"No. My life with you."

Her hands dropped on to the coverlet, and he grasped them in his own. How oft had she drawn away at his touch. Now she yielded, drawing nearer to him, still on her knees.

"Would you come to England with me, Lydie? to my home in England, amongst the hills of Sussex, far from Court life and from politics? Would you follow me thither?"

"To the uttermost ends of the world, good milor," she replied.