“Yes,” said de Kersaint with a little sigh. “And with it the best of our hopes for Finistère.”
De Brencourt shook his head in an affectation of sympathy.
“I wonder you can sleep at night, Marquis, with so much on your mind!”
The proud grey eyes met his. “I do not find it difficult, thanks,” returned his leader drily, and he got up and went to the window, where he pulled aside the rough curtain and looked out. Moonlight came in when he did so.
The Comte made a movement as though to go, but he still lingered, his eyes fixed on the back turned to him.
“It begins to look as if Mirabel had proved as fatal to the Abbé as to Roland and myself and . . . its late mistress,” he observed.
“We must hope not,” replied the Marquis after a moment, drumming lightly on the window pane.
“I feel sure,” went on the Comte, “that, from what I have heard of him, de Trélan’s remorse over that business—assuming that he felt any—would be due rather to the damage suffered by his own reputation than to any affection for his wife. Don’t you think that is probable, de Kersaint?”
The man at the window suddenly flung open the casement as though he needed air. And indeed there was sweat on his forehead.
“By the way,” pursued his tormentor, as though struck by a sudden idea, “I don’t believe I ever asked you, Marquis, who was de Trélan’s heir? He had no legitimate children, I fancy?”