Venetian Masque

At the sound she made in rising, the wounded man's eyelids fluttered, and then Isotta found him staring up at her. Into the dull vacancy of those eyes came consciousness like the glow of an ember that is fanned. But for the swift, anticipatory action of Delacoste he would have raised himself.

'Isotta!' Marc-Antoine uttered her name in wonder. 'Isotta!' His voice sank as he spoke. 'I have your letter . . . your warning . . . But all is well. All is very well.' His speech became blurred. 'I'll take care. I'll . . .' His lips continued to move, but sound no longer came from them. As she bent nearer, his eyes slowly closed as if under the weight of an unconquerable lassitude.

The doctor put an arm about her, and drew her gently away.

Outside the room he was stilling her alarm, reassuring her again.

'He is very weak. That is natural. The great loss of blood. But he has much natural vigour. With God's help we shall make him well. Meanwhile, he is safe here and in devoted hands.'

Isotta saw again that slight, sweet-faced, golden-headed woman rising at the bedside.

'Who is that lady?' she asked.

'Madame la Vicomtesse de Saulx.'

'The Vicomtesse de Saulx, did you say?' and the doctor wondered why the question should hold such a depth of incredulity.

'The Vicomtesse de Saulx,' he repeated, and added: 'She will remain with him tonight, to watch him and tend him.'

Only then did Isotta recall that part of the overheard conversation between her father and Corner in which that name had been mentioned. She had never supposed other than that the inquisitor repeated some false rumour. But now it seemed that such a woman did, indeed, exist. It was bewildering. As she tried to recall the exact words that had passed, she heard again her father's confident assertion that the Vicomtesse de Saulx must be an impostor. And yet she found this woman installed here at the wounded man's bedside. It was disquieting, inexplicable. It still clouded her mind when Lallemant had escorted her to the vestibule where her servant waited. He was assuring her, not only that her friend Melville would be well cared for, but also that he would be safe.

'Here in the embassy, at least, the warrant of the inquisitors does not run. So that even though they may know of his presence, they are powerless to trouble him.'

Yet, when at last she spoke, it was not of this.

'The lady with him is the Vicomtesse de Saulx,' she said.

'Yes. Her interest in him is perhaps natural. She was with him when the attack was made on him. They had both dined here.'

She hesitated over the form of her next question, and uttered at last the best that she could find.

'The Vicomte de Saulx? Is he in Venice?'

Lallemant smiled gently. 'Oh, no. Let us hope that he is in heaven, mademoiselle. The Vicomte de Saulx was guillotined in ninety-three. The Vicomtesse is a widow.'

'I see,' said Isotta slowly, and it seemed to Lallemant as if a cloud had lifted from her.

CHAPTER XXIX STORM-CLOUDS

For some six days Marc-Antoine's life hung on a slender, but gradually strengthening thread. After another three, there came a morning when Delacoste, seated beside his patient, announced to him that for the present he had fooled the devil.

'But I'll confess to you now that he all but had you. My skill would never have defeated him without that angel who remained at your bedside to beat him back. She has not spared herself. For a whole week she hardly slept. A little more, my friend, and she would have saved your life at the expense of her own.' Pensively the doctor sighed. 'We make too light of women, my friend. There is no self-sacrifice equal to that of which a good woman is capable; just as there are no limits to the sacrifices demanded by a bad one. When we have been the object of such devotion as you have known, that is something that we should go on our knees to acknowledge.'

He got up and called Philibert, who was hovering near the window. He instructed him about a cordial which he had brought, and so departed.

In the last two or three days, ever since his mind had recovered a full clarity, Marc-Antoine had been tormented by thoughts of the vital information he had been about to communicate to Count Pizzamano when he was stricken. It troubled him that the situation must have been rendered much more acute by this delay; but at last the absence of the Vicomtesse from his bedside gave him the chance to repair the matter.

'Prop me up, Philibert,' he commanded.

Philibert was scandalized.

'You'll exhaust me more by argument than compliance,' Marc-Antoine insisted. 'Do as I bid you. It is important.'

'Your recovery is much more important, monsieur.'

'You are wrong. It is not. Don't waste time.'

'But, monsieur, if the doctor should find that I have done this . . .'

'He won't. I promise you. If you keep faith with me, I'll keep faith with you. Lock the door, and get me pen, ink, and paper.'