Grammont looked from the one to the other of us, the sullen rage in his face fading to a puzzled helplessness. He said fretfully:
"Which—which is Étienne?"
He could no longer see us plain. M. le Comte came forward silently. Grammont struggled for breath in a way pitiable to see. I put my arm about him and helped the guardsman to hold him straighter. He reached out his hand and caught at M. le Comte's sleeve.
"Étienne—Étienne—pardon. It was wrong toward you—but I never had the pistoles. He called me thief—the duke. I beseech—your—pardon."
M. le Comte was silent.
"It was all Lucas—Lucas did it," Grammont muttered with stiffening lips. "I am sorry for—it. I am dying—I cannot die—without a chance. Say you—for—give—"
Still M. le Comte held back, silent. Treachery was no less treachery though Grammont was dying. All the more that they were cousins, bedfellows, was the injury great to forgive. M. le Comte said nothing.
How Grammont found the strength only God knows, who haply in his goodness gave him a last chance of mercy. Suddenly he straightened his sinking body, started from our hold, and tottered toward his cousin, both hands outstretched in appeal.
M. le Comte's face was set like a flint. The dying man faltered forward. Then M. Étienne, never changing his countenance, slowly, half reluctantly, like a man in a dream, held out his hand.
But the old comrades, estranged by traitory, were never to clasp again. As he reached M. le Comte, Grammont fell at his feet.