“I nearly did—in another way,” said the Comte briefly, raising his head. He drew a deep breath and gazed at her anew. “Do you know, Duchesse, that this is like—No, I cannot yet grasp that this is you, Valentine de Trélan, not only alive, but in this mean room, this bourgeois dress——”
She interrupted him with a warning. “Comte, this mean room of mine is not too safe a shelter for you! And how did you get into Mirabel?”
Plainly this subject had ceased to interest him for the moment, yet he answered that it were better for her not to know, adding, “But you do not ask me why you found me where you did?”
“No,” said Valentine composedly. “I know why you broke in. You are come, are you not, on behalf of the Marquis de Kersaint, to secure the treasure supposed to have been hidden in the château during the time of the Fronde?”
Again M. de Brencourt stared at her. “Are you a witch, Madame, or has some Royalist agent——”
“Neither,” said she smiling. “It is no mystery how I know. You have been preceded in your quest here, Monsieur de Brencourt. Let me tell you of the doings of a very rash young man.”
And astonished, annoyed, but half envious in the end (for had she not nursed the boy for four days) the Comte de Brencourt listened. But Valentine had to hear some very trenchant comments on her protégé’s insane proceedings—so her hearer characterised them.
“And where is the treasure really supposed to be?” she asked.
“As far as can be made out,” said her guest, “behind the great hearth, under that curious sort of gallery, in the room where you found me.—Duchesse, I should perhaps ask your permission for my work there; indeed, should I find anything, what right have I to take it?”
“The right of conquest,” answered Valentine. “But, as for my permission, if I thought that withholding it would keep you from going on with your search, I believe I would withhold it. You risk your life, Monsieur de Brencourt—or at least your liberty. Is it worth it?”