Before Gerald could answer, we heard a noise without, and presently I distinguished the bland tones of the hypocritical Fatalist, in soft expostulation with the triumphant voice of Mr. Marie Oswald. I hastened out, and discovered that the lay-brother, whom I left in the chaise, having caught a glimpse of the valet gliding among the ruins, had recognized, seized, and by the help of the postilions, dragged him to the door of the tower. The moment Desmarais saw me he ceased to struggle: he met my eye with a steady but not disrespectful firmness; he changed not even the habitual hue of his countenance,—he remained perfectly still in the hands of his arresters; and if there was any vestige of his mind discoverable in his sallow features and glittering eye, it was not the sign of fear, or confusion, or even surprise; but a ready promptness to meet danger, coupled, perhaps, with a little doubt whether to defy or to seek first to diminish it.
Long did I gaze upon him,—struggling with internal rage and loathing, the mingled contempt and desire of destruction with which we gaze upon the erect aspect of some small but venomous and courageous reptile,—long did I gaze upon him before I calmed and collected my voice to speak:
“So I have thee at last! First comes the base tool, and that will I first break, before I lop off the guiding hand.”
“So please Monsieur my Lord the Count,” answered Desmarais, bowing to the ground, “the tool is a file, and it would be useless to bite against it.”
“We will see that,” said I, drawing my sword; “prepare to die!” and I pointed the blade to his throat with so sudden and menacing a gesture that his eyes closed involuntarily, and the blood left his thin cheek as white as ashes: but he shrank not.
“If Monsieur,” said he, with a sort of smile, “will kill his poor, old, faithful servant, let him strike. Fate is not to be resisted; and prayers are useless!”
“Oswald,” said I, “release your prisoner; wait here, and keep strict watch. Jean Desmarais, follow me!”
I ascended the stairs, and Desmarais followed. “Now,” I said, when he was alone with Gerald and myself, “your days are numbered: you will fall; not by my hand, but by that of the executioner. Not only your forgery, but your robbery, your abetment of murder, are known to me; your present lord, with an indignation equal to my own, surrenders you to justice. Have you aught to urge, not in defence—for to that I will not listen—but in atonement? Can you now commit any act which will cause me to forego justice on those which you have committed?” Desmarais hesitated. “Speak,” said I. He raised his eyes to mine with an inquisitive and wistful look.
“Monsieur,” said the wretch, with his obsequious smile, “Monsieur has travelled, has shone, has succeeded; Monsieur must have made enemies: let him name them, and his poor, old, faithful servant will do his best to become the humble instrument of their fate!”
Gerald drew himself aside, and shuddered. Perhaps till then he had not been fully aware how slyly murder, as well as fraud, can lurk beneath urbane tones and laced ruffles.