“Shall I summon a priest, M. le Duc?” he asked.
Roquefort’s eyes grew bright with sudden resolution. “A priest? Yes! At once!”
But there was no fear of death in his face—he seemed elate, almost joyful. I could not understand it. His countenance had taken on a certain dignity it had before been stranger to—the lines of cruelty and harshness were wiped away—he was almost handsome, and his eyes were bright with purpose.
He coughed again, and a spatter of blood came to his lips. The surgeon wiped it away and gave him again of the wine to drink. We could see how it brought warm life back to him.
“M. le Comte,” he said, when he could speak again, “I have a favor to ask of you. I am sure you can be a generous enemy—even to me, since I am dying.”
“Ask on, M. le Duc,” said the other, in a softened voice. “What is it?”
“One of your men will take this ring,” and he pulled a signet from his finger, “mount to the castle, and show it to the sentry at the outer gate. He will open without question. Your messenger will ask for Mlle. Claire de Brissac. He will tell her that I lie dying here and wish to see her. She will come, I know. Will you do so much for me, M. le Comte?”
“Aye, and more,” came the answer readily, and M. le Comte stooped and took the ring. “It shall be done. I give my word for it.”
Roquefort’s eyes blazed up with joy; then he lay back wearily upon his pillow. I felt a sudden fear spring to life in my heart. What could he want of Claire? I looked up to find M. le Comte’s eyes upon me.
“M. de Marsan,” he said, “are you too weary to perform this journey?”