"I pray that Aymar himself does not know. . . . I hardly like even to repeat it, but my maid tells me that she heard a man in the village saying he had heard a report that it was Aymar's own men who shot him, on account of the disaster at the bridge. If only he has not heard it himself—if only we can keep it from him!"
She raised her eyes at the last words. But what she saw on the candid visage of her cousin's confidant caused her to put a hand quickly to her heart.
"Merciful Heavens—it is not true!"
Laurent lowered his head. Mme de Villecresne gripped his arm, breathlessly repeating, "It is not true!—it cannot be!"
"Unfortunately . . . it is true," responded the young man, more than unwillingly.
His fair head and the sunset all reeled together, obviously, before the girl's eyes. She loosed his arm and sank down on the broad wall beside him, her face drained of colour; then, as Laurent, alarmed, took a step towards her, she made a gesture as if to ward him off, and covered it with her hands.
"It was only two or three of them," added Laurent hesitatingly.
She made no answer, and after another terrible silence, during which her informant rooted up an entire pink from between the stones of the wall, she rose, her face still hidden, and went from him.
Aymar, sitting at a table in his room with a pen between his fingers and fatigue on his face, heard from Laurent the account of what had just happened without comment or change of expression.
"Where is she now?" he asked, getting up.