His look said as plainly as speech, “So you do care a little for my life—even for my liberty,” but what he replied was, “The King’s cause in Finistère is in desperate need of money.”
“And your leader is determined to secure it,” finished Valentine. She went on, “Who is this Marquis de Kersaint who . . . who sent you?” It was not the way in which she had meant to end the sentence.
Her question had rung in the Comte de Brencourt’s own head pretty often of late. If he could have answered it . . .
“M. de Kersaint, Madame, as his ardent admirer, young de Céligny, will probably have told you, is the émigré who commanded that forlorn hope of an Austrian column at Rivoli. He had been in Imperial service, I believe, for some years, but left it at Campoformio. Monseigneur le Comte d’Artois and his council offered him the post of organising Finistère, where he will, if all goes well, be the general commanding for the King this summer. I was assigned to him as his second-in-command and came over to Brittany with him in January. I know no more of his personal history than that—except that all his family, so I understand, perished in the massacres.”
There was a little pause, and Valentine, with an effort, said, “I hear that in addition he calls himself a kinsman of . . . my husband’s.”
The Comte made her a little bow. “He does claim that honour.”
The blood mounted to Mme de Trélan’s cheek, but she took no notice of his tone, somewhat at variance with the phrase he used.
“I do not remember ever having heard his name.”
M. de Brencourt was silent.
“But,” she went on, “as his kinship is . . . quite possible . . . I shall ask you, Monsieur de Brencourt, to do me a favour.”