“And he did not hang you?”
“He was about to, Monsieur. Only, in the end, he determined to prove whether I or d’Aurilly were the traitor.”
Roquefort looked across the room where the traitor’s body lay, a dark heap on the platform.
“Ah, yes, I had forgot,” he murmured. Then he turned to Claire. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “since you answer yourself, I quite absolve M. de Marsan, and out of gratitude for that exploit of his am ready to release him.”
I heard Claire breathe a sigh of relief as he paused; but I saw the devil in his eyes. I knew that the end was not yet.
“Unfortunately,” he went on, “there is another count against M. de Marsan—a very grave count. Look yonder, on the platform, Mademoiselle; do you see that thing lying there? An hour since, that was the Vicomte d’Aurilly—now it is a mere heap of carrion. It was M. de Marsan who sprang upon him and wrought the transformation, and M. de Marsan must answer for it.”
“A coward and a traitor, Monsieur,” breathed the girl, “not worthy a second thought.”
“A coward and a traitor, perhaps,” assented Roquefort; “but, nevertheless, my guest and killed within my house.”
I read the implacable purpose in his voice—so did the others, and I saw Claire steadying herself against the wall. How I loved her! And I devoured her sweet face with my eyes. It would be easy to go to death with that image in my heart!
She stood a moment so, looking down at me, her eyes dark with horror. What eyes they were! And Roquefort was looking at her too, reading her heart.