I hesitated, seeking to read this patriot’s soul. Was this all a snare to clinch my damnation? Pooh! if I had ever fancied Tinville hunted for the shadow of a pretext, this morning’s experience should have disabused me of the fallacy.
“Who commissions thee?” I said.
“One to whom I owe a measure of gratitude.”
“But not I?”
“From this time—yes.”
He pushed at me to go before him.
“At least,” I said, “acquaint me if it is the same that sent the letter.”
“I know nothing of any letter. San’ Dieu! I begin to regret my complaisance. This fellow will strangle us all with his long tongue.”
“But, for thyself, my friend?”
“Oh, nom de Dieu! I have no fear, if thou wilt be discreet—and grateful.”