“M. le Moyne,” he said, his eyes full on mine, “tell me truly why you came to Paris. It was not merely to seek your fortune?”
His eyes seemed to be reading my very heart. I had no thought of telling aught but the truth. So the truth I told, just as I had told Nanette, only more briefly—the attack on my sister and my killing of the libertine who had ordered it. Neither this time did M. le Comte interrupt me, but sat listening quietly, only looking at me with those eyes there was no denying. He was smiling when I ended, and I took courage.
“You have strong hearts, you le Moynes, men and women,” he said. “Some rumor of this affair hath reached Paris, only in another guise. It was that M. Philippe de Nizan and two attendants had been set upon by a gang of outlaws, and de Nizan and one of his men killed. The other, who escaped, told a pretty story of the fight, doubtless to save his own reputation. But I knew he was lying, for private advices from Marsan tell me that not a jewel nor pistole had been stolen. Only one of the horses was missing.”
“I rode it away, as I told you, M. le Comte,” I protested earnestly. “It has been sent back from Tours and should be at Marsan by this time awaiting its owner. That will prove the truth of my story, Monsieur.”
But D’Argenson silenced me with a gesture of his hand.
“I need no proof, M. le Moyne,” he said kindly. “I believe it already. I can detect truth from falsehood—that is why I am head of the police. You did well to trust me.”
I turned red with pleasure and tried to stammer my thanks, but he silenced me again.
“If the varlet sticks to his lie, you, of course, will not be troubled,” he added. “Should he tell the truth, the whole truth, there could be no charge against you. Should he tell a half-truth, implicating you, I will take a hand in the affair. I can protect you there, because you had the law on your side, but about this other I am not so certain. You have struck at one of the props of our society, and there is no crime more serious. If a parent or guardian may not dispose of his child in marriage, we will have simply chaos.”
I did not know what to answer. I had no wish to bring about a revolution, yet I knew quite well that I should never permit Nanette to be returned to her infamous uncle—but I could not say that to M. le Comte. He sat for some moments deep in thought, while I tried vainly to discover a way out of the coil.
“Well, M. le Moyne,” he said at last, “it is evident that the most important thing now is to find the girl, since she is no longer with you. Until that is done and her testimony can be secured, I will see that the charge against you is not pressed.”