Serenity had given way at sight of that packet of papers.
"Friend de Mortémar," said Gaston lightly, but with glowing eyes still fixed on his opponent, "the chances of my demise being at least equal to those of milor's—seeing that I know not, on my honour, which is the loaded pistol, and that methinks at this moment I can read murder in his eye—I pray you to take charge of this packet. It is a sacred trust. In case of my death promise me that you will deliver it into the hands of my wife, and into no other. Madame la Comtesse de Stainville will know how to deal with it."
The young Comte de Mortémar took the packet from Gaston.
"I will do as you desire," he said coldly.
"You promise that no one shall touch these papers except my wife, Irène Comtesse de Stainville," reiterated Gaston solemnly.
"On my word of honour," rejoined the young man.
The request was perfectly proper and natural, very usual in such cases; de Mortémar could not help but comply. He could not know that the fulfilment of this promise would mean public dishonour to an innocent and noble woman, and the supreme revenge of a baffled traitor.
If Gaston expected protest, rage, or excitement from his foe he was certainly disappointed. Eglinton had all the characteristics of his race, perfect sang-froid in the face of the inevitable, and an almost morbid consciousness of pride and dignity. He could not filch those papers from Gaston nor prevent de Mortémar from accepting and fulfilling a trust, which had all the appearance of being sacred.
He knew that by this act he had wrested a fortune from a man whose fetish was money, and the power which money gives: true that being an honest man himself, he had never thought of such an infamous revenge.
If he died now Heaven help his proud Lydie! but if he lived then Heaven help them both!