“Louis?” asked the Marquis. “Yes. Do you know where he is?”
“If you can get him released,” said D’Aubeville rapidly, without replying to the question, “I can get him out of Paris.”
“But where is he?” exclaimed Gilbert impatiently. “I can get him out of Paris myself, if I can find him.”
“She must know, if no one else does,” returned D’Aubeville. “Go to her—to Madame d’Espaze. She knows, and she could get Lecorrier to release him.”
“Madame d’Espaze,” repeated the Marquis. “She knows, you say—but would she do it?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders. “It is a chance—the only one. At least, if she would do it for any one, she would do it for Saint-Ermay.”
“Give me her address,” said Château-Foix. “I can but try. If we knew where he is it would be something.”
D’Aubeville nodded, scribbling meanwhile in a pocket-book. “There is her address. Get Saint-Ermay released before to-morrow evening—I can do nothing myself, I should merely be taken too—and send him to the address I have written beneath it. . . . No, you say you can manage that part yourself. It is all over; I must go and see if any of us are left—and you should not be seen talking to me. Good luck to you!”
“Tell me one thing,” interposed Gilbert hastily. “This woman—I know nothing of Louis’ relations with her—can I bribe her?”
D’Aubeville turned. “I should doubt it. I cannot tell you how to prevail upon her; I must leave that to you. She is a devil, but she has a heart sometimes. And at any rate she knows where he is.” He disappeared in the dusk.