In the early twilight, Pere Bonami brought a message that Madame de Selinville requested M. le Baron to come and speak with her, and he was accordingly conducted, with the gendarme behind him, to a small chamber opening into the hall—­the same where the incantations of the Italian pedlar had been played off before Philip and Diane.  The gendarme remained outside the door by which they entered the little dark room, only lighted by one little lamp.

‘Here, daughter,’ said the priest, ’is your cousin.  He can answer the question you have so much at heart;’ and with these words Pere Bonami passed beneath the black curtain that covered the entrance into the hall, admitting as he raised it for a moment a floor of pure light from the wax tapers, and allowing the cadence of the chanting of the priests to fall on the ear.  At first Berenger was scarcely able to discern the pale face that looked as if tears were all dried up, and even before his eyes had clearly perceived her in the gloom, she was standing before him with clasped hands, demanding, in a hoarse, breathless whisper, ’Had he said anything to you?’

‘Anything?  No, cousin,’ said Berenger, in a kind tone.  ’He had seemed suffering and oppressed all dinner-time, and when the servants left us, he murmured a few confused words, then sank.’

’Ah, ah, he spoke it not!  Thank Heaven!  Ah! it is a load gone.  Then neither will I speak it,’ sighed Diane, half aloud.  ’Ah! cousin, he loved you.’

‘He often was kind to us,’ said Berenger, impelled to speak as tenderly as he could of the enemy, who had certainly tortured him, but as if he loved him.

‘He bade us save you,’ said Diane, her eyes shining with strange wild light in the gloom.  ’He laid it on my aunt and me to save you; you must let us.  It must be done before my brother comes,’ she added, in hurried accents.  ’The messengers are gone; he may be here any moment.  He must find you in the chapel—­as—­as my betrothed!’

’And you sent for me here to tempt me—­close to such a chamber as that?’ demanded Berenger, his gentleness becoming sternness, as much with his own worse self as with her.

’Listen.  Ah! it is the only way.  Listen, cousin.  Do you know what killed my father?  It was my brother’s letter saying things must be brought to an end:  either you must be given up to the King, or worse—­worse.  And now, without him to stand between you and my brother, you are lost.  Oh! take pity on his poor soul that has left his body, and bring not you blood on his head.’

‘Nay,’ said Berenger, ’if he repented, the after consequences to me will have no effect on him now.’

‘Have pity then on yourself—­on your brother.’

‘I have,’ said Berenger.  ’He had rather die with me than see me a traitor.’