“By thieves?”
“The inn-keeper and another. They thought that he carried the necklace, and tracked us here.”
“And did they take it?”
“It was not on him,” I answered, looking into her eyes.
She raised them to mine and said simply:
“I have it not;” and with that, asking no more, she drew near to the duke, and sat down by him on the sand, and lifted his head on to her lap, and wiped his brow with her handkerchief, saying in a low voice, “Is he dead?”
Now, whether it be, as some say, that the voice a man loves will rouse him when none else will, or that the duke’s swoon had merely come to its natural end, I know not; but, as she spoke, he, who had slept through Pierre’s rough handling, opened his eyes, and, seeing where he was, tried to raise his hand, groping after hers: and he spoke, with difficulty indeed, yet plainly enough, saying:
“The rascals thought I had the necklace. They did not know how kind you had been, my darling.”
I started where I stood. Marie grew red and then white, and looked down at him no longer with pity, but with scorn and anger on her face.
“I have it not,” she said again. “For all heaven, I would not touch it!”