“I have no enemy,” said I, “but one; and the hangman will do my office upon him; but point out to me the exact spot where at this moment he is concealed, and you shall have full leave to quit this country forever. That enemy is Julian Montreuil!”
“Ah, ah!” said Desmarais, musingly, and in a tone very different from that in which he usually spoke; “must it be so, indeed? For twenty years of youth and manhood I have clung to that man, and woven my destiny with his, because I believed him born under the star which shines on statesmen and pontiffs. Does dread Necessity now impel me to betray him?—him, the only man I ever loved. So—so—so! Count Devereux, strike me to the core: I will not betray Bertrand Collinot!”
“Mysterious heart of man!” I exclaimed inly, as I gazed upon the low brow, the malignant eye, the crafty lip of this wretch, who still retained one generous and noble sentiment at the bottom of so base a breast. But if it sprang there, it only sprang to wither!
“As thou wilt,” said I; “remember, death is the alternative. By thy birth-star, Jean Desmarais, I should question whether perfidy be not better luck than hanging: but time speeds; farewell; I shall meet thee on thy day of trial.”
I turned to the door to summon Oswald to his prisoner. Desmarais roused himself from the revery in which he appeared to have sunk.
“Why do I doubt?” said he, slowly. “Were the alternative his, would he not hang me as he would hang his dog if it went mad and menaced danger? My very noble and merciful master,” continued the Fatalist, turning to me, and relapsing into his customary manner, “it is enough! I can refuse nothing to a gentleman who has such insinuating manners. Montreuil may be in your power this night; but that rests solely with me. If I speak not, a few hours will place him irrevocably beyond your reach. If I betray him to you, will Monsieur swear that I shall have my pardon for past errors?”
“On condition of leaving England,” I answered, for slight was my comparative desire of justice against Desmarais; and since I had agreed with Gerald not to bring our domestic records to the glare of day, justice against Desmarais was not easy of attainment; while, on the other hand, so precarious seemed the chance of discovering Montreuil before he left England, without certain intelligence of his movements, that I was willing to forego any less ardent feeling, for the speedy gratification of that which made the sole surviving passion of my existence.
“Be it so,” rejoined Desmarais; “there is better wine in France! And Monsieur my present master, Monsieur Gerald, will you too pardon your poor Desmarais for his proof of the great attachment he always bore to you?”
“Away, wretch!” cried Gerald, shrinking back; “your villany taints the very air!”
Desmarais lifted his eyes to heaven, with a look of appealing innocence; but I was wearied with this odious farce.