The Comte de Brencourt and the unconscious author of this scene were now alone. And just because the Comte was looking as he did Roland felt that he must say something.
“I am afraid that M. le Marquis’ wound——” he began timidly.
M. de Brencourt gave a short laugh that was more like a snarl. “His wound!” he exclaimed. “Well, yes, a wound if you like—a sore, a festering sore! Mort de ma vie, boy, what made you so observant!”
“Observant!” repeated the puzzled Roland. “I don’t understand you, Monsieur le Comte. Ought one not to have noticed that M. le Marquis was—in pain. But the Abbé——”
“Go on with your supper, in Heaven’s name!” broke in the Comte roughly. He really looked like murder at that moment. “You have done a pretty evening’s work, on my soul—and I don’t suppose you are through with it yet, either!” And, laughing again, he poured out and drank off a glass of wine.
But Roland, almost convinced that he was sitting at table with a madman, was in no mood to obey him. He merely stared at the second in command. Fortunately it was only for a moment, for the bedroom door opened again and the Abbé stood there.
“M. de Kersaint wishes to speak to you, Roland,” he said. Amazing thing—he looked pleased. Roland got up, utterly bewildered. His interview—now? He knew not what he had said or done to precipitate it, and apprehension was so written on his face that M. Chassin put his hand kindly for a moment on his arm as he passed him, and gave it a little pressure.
The Comte de Brencourt now addressed the aumônier. “Since your services, Monsieur l’Abbé, don’t seem after all to be needed for this surprising seizure of M. de Kersaint’s,” he observed, “perhaps you will be good enough to sit down and finish your supper. These constant exits hardly tend to good appetite!”
A flame of anger suddenly ran over the little priest’s face. “It is your services that have been required these many days, Monsieur de Brencourt,” he rapped out, “and you know it! I have no wish to sit down to table with you!” And turning on his heel he marched out of the sitting-room and slammed the door.
Stupefaction seized M. de Brencourt in his turn. He did know then, that wily old devil—he had known all the time! Why, in the name of all his saints had he not told de Trélan? But anyhow de Trélan was in process of enlightenment at this moment behind that door, for of course he had had the boy in to question him further. In a few minutes he would doubtless come out, and then—well, there would probably be murder. For a little bloodshed would hardly wash away this time what their encounter the other evening had not availed to bring to light. . . .