As for the marquis, Brother Jacques
fostered the belief that it had been only a wild dream.
Each morning Madame de Brissac watched with growing eagerness the
lading of the good ship Henri IV. It seemed impossible to her that the
deception in regard to the Chevalier could continue much longer. Where
was the denouement on which she had builded so fondly? She had put it
off so many times that perhaps it was now too late. Sooner or later
Victor would slip, and the mask would be at an end. And why not? Why
not have done with a comedy which had grown stale? Why not tell
Monsieur du Cevennes that she was Gabrielle Diane de Montbazon, she
whose miniature he had crushed beneath the heel of his riding boot?
Rather would she tell him than leave it to the offices of D'Herouville
or the vicomte. Surely her purpose had been to bring him to his knees
and then laugh! Relent? Not while her cup still held a drop of pride.
She had been mad indeed. To have come here to Quebec with purpose and
impulse undefined! Daily she mocked her weakness. Truly she was the
daughter of her mother, extravagant, unbalanced, blown hither and
thither by caprice as a leaf is blown by an autumn wind.
Pages:
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403