I could feel the force with which Roquefort gripped the bottom of the rack to steady himself under the blow.
“You!” he cried. “You!” and he glared at her with bloodshot eyes. “Name of God! But this is beyond endurance! You—Claire de Brissac, whom I have honored with the offer of my hand—a traitor!”
“Not a traitor, M. le Duc,” she protested proudly. “I sought merely to save the life of a man who had saved my uncle’s. I am still seeking to do so. Surely I have succeeded!”
But Roquefort was looking down at me and did not answer.
“Tell me, M. de Marsan,” he said at last, “is this pretty story true—this story of the rescue?”
“Quite true, M. le Duc.”
“And did Cadillac know?”
“He recognized me at once, Monsieur. So did Letourge. He was in bed——”
“In bed?” queried Roquefort, surprised.
“In bed—yes. It was he whom Mademoiselle struck across the face with a white-hot iron. He will always wear the scar.”