“What is it, M. de Marsan?” she asked. “What has happened?”
“M. le Duc is injured,” I said, so low that the others could not hear. “He is very badly injured—dying, perhaps—and wishes to see you.”
“Dying!” she breathed, her face white with horror. “And he was so strong—so full of life! Oh, then I will go! Let us hasten, Monsieur!”
They threw back the postern and in a moment we were without—alone together.
CHAPTER XVI
MADAME LA DUCHESSE DE ROQUEFORT
We went down the road together in silence. For a moment my heart revolted at the warmth of Claire’s allusion to the man; then I remembered that he was dying, and put the pettiness from me. I longed to speak to her, to take her hand, but I knew that fifty pairs of eyes were watching us from the battlements, and held my peace. But I could look at her—at her great, dark eyes, her red lips, the curls clustering about her neck, her lithe, active, perfect figure, promising even greater charms as the years passed.
She raised her eyes to mine and smiled tremulously at what she saw there.
“How far is this place to which we go, Monsieur?” she asked.
“Not far,” I answered. “Would it were all eternity away!”
She smiled again.