It meant another struggle against resentment and against pride. But, in any case, the present uncertainty was unendurable. Denise de Mortain felt that she would have gone on her knees to the devil himself if he brought her authentic news of Laurent. She went boldly to the door, and, opening it, she called:
"Mathurin! Are you there?"
"At your orders, Madame la Marquise," replied the man.
He came back into the room, reluctantly this time. He was a good fellow, with wife and children of his own. Temperamentally and traditionally he hated these Royalists—packs of rebels and intriguers, he called them—and he knew this haughty lady had plotted against her own son—M. le Maréchal—whom he adored; but there was something which he had yet to tell her, and in his own rough way he shrank from the task, feeling nothing but pity for her, because of what she was doomed to suffer.
"The prisoner tells me," began Madame la Marquise, as calmly as she could, "that you can give me news of M. le Marquis de Mortain, my son. Is that so?"
"Yes, Madame la Marquise," replied the man slowly.
"Well," she asked, "why did you not give me that news at once?"
Thus commanded, Mathurin could not help but obey as quickly as possible. He shifted from one foot to the other, and a look of real pity softened for a moment the rugged lines of his face.
"Well, Madame la Marquise," he began, "you must know that after the fight with M. de Puisaye's rearguard we had several prisoners in our hands. M. le Maréchal took the trouble to interrogate each one separately. When he had finished, he ordered me to accompany him, and together we went to the spot where the affray had taken place. It was on the edge of the wood. It was then about three o'clock in the morning and the dawn was breaking. The place was littered with dead. I counted over sixty myself, among them young M. de Fleurot, whom I knew."
"Yes?" said Madame la Marquise quietly, for the man had paused. She knew well enough what he was about to tell her. He looked her straight in the eyes. They expressed a query, and he nodded silently in reply. A low moan of pain broke from Madame's lips; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips to smother a louder cry.