The Marquis, when he re-entered the room, was unfastening his sword. “You must take the bed to-night, of course, Louis,” he said, without looking up. “And for God’s sake be quick about it.”
Saint-Ermay looked at him as with bent head he fumbled at his side. The fingers of his left hand were still swathed in bandages.
“Let me unfasten that for you,” he said. “You will do your hand an injury.” And before his cousin could object he was kneeling beside him. He had the sword detached in an instant, and, handing it up to him, said softly: “I owe you my life.”
“On the contrary,” said the Marquis coolly, “I think that we owe you the bridge, for if the men had not had to save you I doubt whether they would have followed me over it.” He turned away and laid his sword on the table.
“Well, of all the extraordinary and perverted logic——” began Louis, laughing.
Château-Foix sat down and began to pull off his boots. “It is a fact,” he said. “And then what of the man at Pézé?”
The Vicomte flushed scarlet. “Oh, were you only paying off a debt?” he asked in a suddenly hardened voice.
Gilbert finished the struggle with his boots before he answered. “No,” he said, “that debt is not yet paid. I did not save you, Louis; it was the men. We must have tried to carry the bridge anyhow. . . . But you acknowledge then, at last, that I did incur a debt at Pézé?”
“I would rather not talk about what happened at Pézé,” returned Louis. He was now very pale. “Good-night.”
How, after the poignant emotion of the bridge, could he torture Louis now that he was given back to him? Gilbert suddenly held out his hand. “You gave me a most horrible fright this evening. . . . Now get to bed. I do not want another.”