“No,” replied the Marquis, his eyes on the stem of his wineglass. “She was not there. She was often elsewhere. They had several other properties.”
“A great pity,” observed M. de Brencourt meaningly, “that she was not elsewhere in August, ’92. Why in God’s name did she not emigrate?”
“My dear Comte, how can I say?” retorted M. de Kersaint, twisting the wineglass round and round. (Had he turned paler?)
“I wonder,” said his companion reflectively, “if her husband ever gave her the chance of going with him?”
How can a man in mental agony, however proud and determined, suppress every sign of what he is suffering? Yet only a very close observer could have seen the throbbing of the vein at the Marquis de Kersaint’s temple. And this observer, though watching as the proverbial cat the mouse, missed it.
“You seem to forget,” returned M. de Kersaint rather haughtily, “that my kinsman is a gentleman. And, for the matter of that, the Duchesse could have gone at any time between ’90 and ’92.”
“Quite true. And might be alive now had she done so.”
“So might many other people, if it comes to that.”
“It was a wise precaution, certainly, leaving France. I suppose one may say you owe your life to it, de Kersaint?”
“Possibly,” said his leader shortly. “More probably I owe it to Josef Schnitterl. Pass me the wine if you have done with it, please.”