“At any rate, he saved us, M. le Duc,” interrupted Brissac with a touch of impatience.
“Yes, he saved you, perhaps,” assented Roquefort, “but he refuses to answer my questions. I am grateful for the one; the other I cannot forgive. He must be made to answer.”
I saw Brissac flush darkly and Claire grow pale. You may well conceive with what intentness I stared up at this scene—with what agony of earnestness I watched the face of each of the actors in it.
“What are these questions, M. le Duc?” asked Brissac at last.
“The first is—the name of the man who sent a message from here to Marsan, which this fellow carried to Montauban. He says he did not see the messenger—at least, not his face—and that he does not know his name. But the other question cannot be evaded so easily. I want the name of the person who, three nights since, cut the bonds which held him to Drouet.”
I saw the blood sweep in a wave from Claire’s face as she came slowly forward. I understood what she was about to do, and implored her with my eyes not to speak, but she did not even glance at me.
“Do you mean, M. le Duc,” she asked, in a voice strained by emotion, “that if you have the name of this person you will release M. de Marsan?”
Roquefort glanced at her, surprised by her emotion.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I had sworn to have his life, but the story you have told me counts in his favor.”
“Then, M. le Duc,” she said firmly, “learn that I am the person. M. de Marsan chose not to betray me, but I can betray myself.”