“Ah, this concierge about whom you are so unwilling to tell me anything, although the Abbé’s success or failure may possibly depend upon her.”
“Unwilling—I!” exclaimed the Comte harshly. “There is nothing to tell. She did not save me, like Roland.” A sneer crept into his voice. “And probably in Roland’s case it was merely that he is a taking youth, and she felt compassion for him, or——” An idea seemed suddenly to come into his mind that struck him silent for a moment; then with half a laugh he muttered, “No, morbleu, it could hardly have been that! On the contrary!”
“You are mysterious,” observed his leader coldly. “And I repeat that, since you knew this friendly woman to be in charge at Mirabel, I cannot understand your trying to dissuade me from a further attempt on the treasure.”
M. de Brencourt looked at the ceiling. “Possibly you cannot,” he returned very slowly. “But I remembered that one woman had already gone to prison—and worse—from Mirabel, and I did not——”
The Marquis leant forward. “Do you mean to insinuate,” he said hotly, “that I wish to make use of a woman and leave her to pay? Because if so, Monsieur de Brencourt——”
He checked himself abruptly. “Come in!”
The knock at the door had heralded Lucien du Boisfossé, who stood there saluting and signifying that the chef de canton called ‘Sincèree’ had sent a messenger who would like to speak to the General at once.
“Show him up,” said M. de Kersaint. “No—wait! I’ll see him downstairs. Excuse me, Comte.” And he was gone.
M. de Brencourt looked after him with an unpleasant smile; then he poured himself out another glass of wine and drank it down.