“What was that, monsieur?” I asked.
“That was Citizen Goujon,” he answered; and his eyes grew cold as steel. “We found him writhing in his tent——”
“Yes—I planted one good blow,” I said, and told him the story. “What did you do with him?”
“We dragged him out, screaming with terror, begging for mercy, offering to divulge I know not what secrets, and hanged him with the rope which had been prepared for you. It was a pretty vengeance—even you could not desire a better.”
“No,” I murmured. “No.”
His face softened into a smile.
“It has a resemblance to a certain Bible story, hasn’t it?” he asked. “I did not then know the full tale of Goujon’s iniquities, or I might have chosen a different death for him. It was Mademoiselle de Chambray who told me of the assault upon the château and the death of my dear friend, de Favras. Permit me to say that in that affair also, M. de Tavernay, you proved yourself a gallant man.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” I answered. “I but did what any gentleman would do. You found Mademoiselle de Chambray, then?”
I tried to ask it carelessly, but I fear my burning face betrayed me. At any rate, he smiled again as he looked at me.
“Yes,” he said, “we found her lying senseless on the floor of Goujon’s tent. At first we thought her dead, but she soon opened her eyes. Can you guess what her first word was? But perhaps I ought not to tell you!”