Lafleur’s prayers died away. The duke, still smiling, set his pistol against the wretch’s head.
“That’s what you deserve,” said he.
And Lafleur, groveling, caught him by the knees.
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he implored.
“Why not?” asked the duke, in the tone of a man willing to hear the other side, but certain that he would not be convinced by it. “Why not? We find you stealing—and we shoot you as you try to escape. I see nothing unnatural or illegal in it, Lafleur. Nor do I see anything in favor of leaving you alive.”
And the pistol pressed still on Lafleur’s forehead. Whether his master meant to shoot, I know not—although I believe he did. But Lafleur had little doubt of his purpose; for he hastened to play his best card, and, clinging still to the duke’s knees, cried desperately:
“If you’ll spare me, I’ll tell you where she is!”
The duke’s arm fell to his side; and in a changed voice, from which the cruel bantering had fled, while eager excitement filled its place, he cried:
“What? Where who is?”
“The lady—Mlle. Delhasse. A girl I know—there in Avranches—saw her go. She is there now.”