It was a bright, sunny morning when De Beaurepaire drew rein in the long, dirty street of Charenton, and, turning his horse's head, directed it towards the hamlet of Saint Mandé where his Lodge was. The Lodge that, enshrouded in trees, stood on the edge of the Forest of Vincennes and was one of the many which, wherever there was a royal forest, were the residences of the Grand Veneur of the time being.

Leading his animal to the stables, while observing that already the heavy curtains were drawn apart and the inmates stirring, he tethered it in a stall and fetched a feed for it from the bin near at hand. After which he locked the stable door with the key he had drawn from his pocket, retraced his steps to the garden, and, mounting to the verandah, went towards the window.

If, however, he did this with the intention of tapping on it and thus attracting the notice of whosoever might be, within that room, this intention was anticipated.

As his heavy riding-boots sounded on the crushed shell path and his gilt spurs rang at his heels, he heard the frou-frou of a woman's long robe on the parquet of the room and saw the thick folds of the stamped leather hangings drawn aside by a slim white hand, and, next, one side of the window opened.

A moment later he was in the room, and the woman who called herself Emérance de Villiers-Bordéville stood before him.

"So," she exclaimed in a whisper, the very murmur of which told of her joy at having him with her once more; "so you are back once more. And almost to the moment, as you promised. Ah! I have so longed to see you since you quitted Paris for Fontainebleau." Then she said, "Come, see, a meal is prepared. Come, refresh yourself, eat and drink and let us be merry. We meet once more."

Yet, as she spoke and while gazing up into the handsome face of the man before her, she saw something in that face, something in the dark eyes that were looking down into hers, that startled her.

"What is it?" she asked in a low voice, a voice that was almost hoarse in its depth. "What?"

"I will tell you," De Beaurepaire answered, "but first a drink of wine. I am parched and dry with my ride, and also with a fever that consumes me within. Give me the drink."

Obeying him, the woman went over to the table which stood at one side of the room; a table set out with cold meats, a pasty and some salads and, also, with a large flask of wine, when, pouring out some into a goblet, she brought it to the man she loved. As he drank, eagerly, thirstily, she let her eyes rest on him till he had finished the draught. After which she said again, "What is it?"

"This. Humphrey West is alive. La Truaumont has either lied to me or been deceived."

"Alive!" Emérance repeated, her face blanching as she spoke, while the softness of it seemed to vanish, to leave it in a moment, and her eyes became dim. "Humphrey West--the man who heard--as they all thought--what was said in that room at Basle."

"Yes. Alive and--at Fontainebleau."

"Malheur!" while, as Emérance spoke, the goblet she had taken from his hand after he had finished drinking fell to the floor and shivered into a dozen pieces on the parquet. "At Fontainebleau! Where the King is. So," and she shuddered as though the room had suddenly grown cold. "You are undone. Lost. Oh!"

"You are undone. Lost," she had said. She had not said, "We are undone." And, as she said it, the man knew, if he had never known before, how strong her love was for him. There had been no thought of, no fear for, herself springing quickly to her mind in learning the danger that overhung them both, though there could have been no possibility of her failing to understand that what threatened him threatened her also; she had thought only of him. She had not said, "We are undone." Her wail, her terror had been for him alone.

"Emérance," De Beaurepaire said, taking her to his arms now and kissing her, while--whatever the man's faults were, and they were many and grievous!--indifference to the self-abnegation of this thing that, he now knew, loved him so, could not be counted among them. "Emérance, I think not of myself but you. I have staked and lost. I must stand the hazard. Les battus payent l'amende."

"No, no," Emérance wailed. "What! You think of me! Of me the schemer, the adventuress--the woman who is herself of Normandy, who hoped to see this proud, masterful ruler beaten down by the Normans he despises and treats evilly. The woman who hoped to see the man she loves, the man she worships, help in the work and, perhaps, assume that ruler's place. Who am I that you should think of me? Yet, nevertheless, this sunders our lives. Or! no--no!" she went on, a wan smile stealing on to her face. "For though we go out of each other's lives it may be that we shall set out from each other together, at the same time--though we go different dark roads at parting."

Excited, overmastered, by what her imagination conjured up, at what must be their fate if their conspiracy was known by now to the King, she went toward the table again and, filling another glass, drank it to the dregs. After which, as though inspirited by what she had drunk, she came back to where the other stood, while saying:--

"Tell me all. Have you seen him at Fontainebleau?"

"Five hours past. Ill, white, like a man who has been close to, who has knocked at, death's door, yet has been refused admittance. In the great avenue, on his road to the chateau."

"You could not have been mistaken?"

"I was not mistaken. Our eyes did not meet as he looked out of the crazy conveyance in which he sat. But in seeing him, I learnt all."

"Was La Truaumont deceived in what he repeated to you--or--or is that wretch, Van den Enden, a double traitor? Yet--yet--you told me ere you went to Fontainebleau that the former said La Preaux forced Humphrey West to fight with him and slew him, leaving the blame to fall on Boisfleury. That he saw the young man slain."

"La Truaumont was not deceived nor did he lie. He saw the fight: he saw the other fall. Yet, now, I have seen him alive. This very day. Alive and making his way to the King."

"And ere the Englishman was killed he had killed Boisfleury?" Emérance asked meditatively.

"Nay. La Truaumont thought not so but that he only wounded him sorely."

"They should have killed him ere they left Basle. They should have killed them both. They should have made sure of their silence for ever. Thus, too, when they were found they would have been thought to have slain each other; their lips would have been sealed--you would have been safe."

"Emérance, think not of me alone. I am but one."

"But one! You are the only one of whom I can think. What are a thousand lives, a thousand murders, to me so long as you are safe!"

Before this overmastering passion of the woman for him, this love that, like the love............