“Must we, then, indeed, forget all, Marie?” murmured Cinq-Mars.

She hesitated.

“Yes, forget all—­that I myself have forgotten.”  Then, after a moment’s pause, she continued with earnestness:  “Yes, forget our happy days together, our long evenings, even our walks by the lake and through the wood; but keep the future ever in mind.  Go, Henri; your father was Marechal.  Be you more; be you Constable, Prince.  Go; you are young, noble, rich, brave, beloved—­”

“Beloved forever?” said Henri.

“Forever; for life and for eternity.”

Cinq-Mars, tremulously extending his hand to the window, exclaimed: 

“I swear, Marie, by the Virgin, whose name you bear, that you shall be mine, or my head shall fall on the scaffold!”

“Oh, Heaven! what is it you say?” she cried, seizing his hand in her own.  “Swear to me that you will share in no guilty deeds; that you will never forget that the King of France is your master.  Love him above all, next to her who will sacrifice all for you, who will await you amid suffering and sorrow.  Take this little gold cross and wear it upon your heart; it has often been wet with my tears, and those tears will flow still more bitterly if ever you are faithless to the King.  Give me the ring I see on your finger.  Oh, heavens, my hand and yours are red with blood!”

“Oh, only a scratch.  Did you hear nothing, an hour ago?”

“No; but listen.  Do you hear anything now?”

“No, Marie, nothing but some bird of night on the tower.”

“I heard whispering near us, I am sure.  But whence comes this blood?  Tell me, and then depart.”

“Yes, I will go, while the clouds are still dark above us.  Farewell, sweet soul; in my hour of danger I will invoke thee as a guardian angel.  Love has infused the burning poison of ambition into my soul, and for the first time I feel that ambition may be ennobled by its aim.  Farewell!  I go to accomplish my destiny.”

“And forget not mine.”

“Can they ever be separated?”

“Never!” exclaimed Marie, “but by death.”

“I fear absence still more,” said Cinq-Mars.

“Farewell!  I tremble; farewell!” repeated the beloved voice, and the window was slowly drawn down, the clasped hands not parting till the last moment.

The black horse had all the while been pawing the earth, tossing his head with impatience, and whinnying.  Cinq-Mars, as agitated and restless as his steed, gave it the rein; and the whole party was soon near the city of Tours, which the bells of St. Gatien had announced from afar.  To the disappointment of old Grandchamp, Cinq-Mars would not enter the town, but proceeded on his way, and five days later he entered, with his escort, the old city of Loudun in Poitou, after an uneventful journey.

CHAPTER II

THE STREET

     Je m’avancais d’un pas penible et mal assure vers le but
     de ce convoi tragique.—­NODIER, ‘Smarra’.