“No,” said the Comte again. “He judged it to be impracticable, after all.”
“The Duc is no longer in England, perhaps?” pursued Valentine, in torture at having to show him that she herself did not know.
“No, Madame, not in England, nor——”
He stopped abruptly. As a man who is fording a river may come unexpectedly on a deep and eddying current that threatens his balance, so did Artus de Brencourt find himself losing foothold in the wholly unlooked for temptation which suddenly assailed him. Could it be blamed, the lie which should rid this beloved lady of the ghost of that worthless husband who had left her to this, the husband who in effect had been dead to her for years—and who probably really was dead by this time? For those suspicions as to de Kersaint’s identity were absurd. . . .
And though it was unpremeditated, nothing could have served him better than his hesitation. The Duchesse’s eyes were on him.
“Do not be afraid to speak, Monsieur de Brencourt,” she said, slowly turning ashy pale. “If you mean that the Duc is dead—tell me so!”
How could he resist the statement, put into his very mouth like that? Once again those arguments flashed past him: nothing had been heard of de Trélan for years, the Marquis had not communicated with him—and as for those surmises about de Kersaint himself, which till this moment he had done nothing but encourage, he mentally stamped on them. Then, taking a long breath, he let himself be sucked down, dizzy but open-eyed, into the torrent.
“Madame . . . I regret to be so fatal a messenger,” was all he said, and bent his head.
At least he would not look at her to see how his arrow had sped. He heard her catch her breath, heard her rise from her place opposite him at the table and go away. Glancing up, after a moment, he saw her on the edge of the circle of lamplight, leaning against the high shuttered window, her hands over her face.