All the hot blood was back in her cheek, all the fiery passion
back in her eyes. She lashed this potent ruler with the scourge of her
scorn as she had lashed a drunken horde of plunderers with her whip. She
was reckless of what she said; she was conscious only of one thing--the
despair that consumed her.
The French Marshal glanced his eye on the fragment, carelessly and
coldly. As he saw the words, he started, and read on with wondering
eagerness.
"Royallieu!" he muttered--"Royallieu!"
The name was familiar to him; he it was who, when he had murmured, "That
man has the seat of the English Guards," as a Chasseur d'Afrique had
passed him, had been ignorant that in that Chasseur he saw one whom he
had known in many a scene of court splendor and Parisian pleasure. The
years had been many since Cecil and he had met, but not so many but that
the name brought memories of friendship with it, and moved him with a
strange emotion.
He turned with grave anxiety to Cigarette.
"You speak strangely. How came this in your hands?"
"Thus: the day that you gave me the Cross, I saw Mme. la Princesse
Corona. I hated her, and I went--no matter! From her I learned that he
whom we call Louis Victor was of her rank, was of old friendship with
her house, was exiled and nameless, but for some reason unknown to her.
She needed to see him; to bid him farewell, so she said. I took the
message for her; I sent him to her." Her voice grew husky and savage,
but she forced her words on with the reckless sacrifice of self that
moved her.
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