“Then I did——” broke out Louis, clenching his hands. “And you . . . all this time. . . .”
Gilbert took no notice, but went on in the same even tone. “Tell me what happened in Paris. You have done what is required, in the way of denial at least, of a man of honour.” His lip curled for a second. “Besides, I am going to marry her. Yes,” he repeated with intense meaning, “I am going to marry her, whatever has happened.”
He had found the key to make Louis speak.
“Good God!” exclaimed the Vicomte, “you don’t think——”
The Marquis did not move a muscle. “I don’t know,” he said.
Saint-Ermay sprang to his feet. “You can’t think it, Gilbert! I will give you my word of honour—I will swear it by anything you please. If you refuse to believe me it is your own doing. . . . My God, you must believe me!”
Still with his horrible and judicial calm Gilbert surveyed his cousin, shaken so violently from his ordinary nonchalance. At last he said slowly: “Yes, in this instance I will believe you.”
“Then, as God sees me,” said Louis solemnly, “you have not the slightest shadow of a foundation for your suspicion. If I were dying at this moment I could not say otherwise. I am no better than other men—I have never pretended to it—but that . . . how could you think it for a moment!”
Gilbert’s long breath of relief was audible, but it was improbable that the Vicomte heard it, for he had sunk down again upon the log and buried his face in his hands.
“Now tell me,” said Gilbert remorselessly, “exactly what happened.”