“Thank you,” said the Marquis as he finished. “And I am to understand that Lucienne does not, never has reciprocated this dishonourable passion?—No, I will not ask you that; it makes no difference. . . . I see it all plainly now,” he continued, getting to his feet. “I am to blame for leaving her near you. I should have known better what you were. But you were my cousin and my friend; we were brought up together; the idea of such treachery never entered my head. The more fool I, no doubt! But you—trusted like a brother, you have acted like a lackey! If you have stopped short of the ultimate betrayal, that is all you have refrained from. There was a moment in Paris—you may as well know it; it was when you were in prison—when . . . something . . . caused me to entertain suspicions of you. But I put them away as unworthy; I was ashamed of myself for harbouring them; I was ashamed of having, for an instant, thought of leaving you to your fate. I need not have reproached myself. Ever since that night at Pézé when my eyes were opened I have been able to put it all together: your treachery, your ingratitude, your callousness— your double treachery . . . were you not trying to seduce Lucienne at the very time that you were making love to that adventuress? You are equally heartless and traitorous; you did not even keep your conquest secret—else why did you fight De Bercy the morning after I came to Paris? . . . God!” he exclaimed, his unnatural self-control slipping for an instant from him, “how I have wished that I had you at the point of my sword!”
Louis was on his feet, white with fury. “You can easily gratify that wish!” he retorted. “I ask nothing better! Here, now—no, curse it, we have no swords. . . .”
“No,” said the Marquis coldly, “it is too late. Our lives are wanted for something else.”
“Even mine?” asked Saint-Ermay with bitter derision. “Well, you can ask for it when the need is past. I shall not forget the unspeakable things you have said to me—safeguarded by the knowledge that we cannot cross swords over them. . . . If I have wronged you, Christ! you have had your revenge!”
His face, perfectly colourless, amply bore out his last words. Neither that, nor the blanched rage which lit it, nor the taunt, moved Château-Foix a jot.
“Ah, do you think so?” he said. “I do not. But, at least, I have had the story from your own lips. Now we know where we stand, and we must put the question aside. For the present it is our duty to go on living here together; but, as it happens, I can offer you a commission to do for me to-day if you choose—to ride over to M. de Verteuil at Le Fougerais with a letter.”
“Thank you,” said Louis, choking. “Dare you trust me?”
“In this matter,” replied the Marquis, unmoved, and turning away, left him there.
CHAPTER XXXIV
SURGERY: THE PROBE
“Your silence, full and near,