“Because he took no active part in the revolt. If he was a traitor, he was no more than a traitor at heart, and until a man commits a crime in deed he is not amenable to the law's rigour. His wife has made his defection clear; but it were unfair to punish him in the same measure as you punish those who bore arms against you, Sire.”
“Is that not enough, Sire?” I cried. My heart beat quickly, and my pulses throbbed with the suspense of that portentous moment.
He bent his head, dipped his pen and began to write.
“What punishment would you have me mete out to him?” he asked as he wrote. “Come, Marcel, deal fairly with me, and deal fairly with him--for as you deal with him, so shall I deal with you through him.”
I felt myself paling in my excitement. “There is banishment, Sire--it is usual in cases of treason that are not sufficiently flagrant to be punished by death.”
“Yes!” He wrote busily. “Banishment for how long, Marcel? For his lifetime?”
He raised his eyes and smiled. “Ah! You turn prophet? Well, for how long, then? Come, man.”
He wrote on for a few moments; then he raised the sandbox and sprinkled the document.
“Tiens!” he cried, as he dusted it and held it out to me. “There is my warrant for the disposal of Monsieur le Vicomte Leon de Lavedan. He is to go into banishment for five years, but his estates shall suffer no sequestration, and at the end of that period he may return and enjoy them--we hope with better loyalty than in the past. Get them to execute that warrant at once, and see that the Vicomte starts to-day under escort for Spain. It will also be your warrant to Mademoiselle de Lavedan, and will afford proof to her that your mission has been successful.”
“Sire!” I cried. And in my gratitude I could say no more, but I sank on my knee before him and raised his hand to my lips.
“There,” said he in a fatherly voice. “Go now, and be happy.”
“Ma foi, I had all but forgotten, so much has Monsieur de Lavedan's fate preoccupied us.” He picked up another paper from his table, and tossed it to me. It was my note of hand to Chatellerault for my Picardy estates.
“Chatellerault died this morning,” the King pursued. “He had been asking to see you, but when he was told that you had left Toulouse, he dictated a long confession of his misdeeds, which he sent to me together with this note of yours. He could not, he wrote, permit his heirs to enjoy your estates; he had not won them; he had really forfeited his own stakes, since he had broken the rules of play. He has left me to deliver judgment in the matter of his own lands passing into your possession. What do you say to it, Marcel?”