The Comte, livid, swallowed something in his throat. “Your safe-conduct is waste paper,” he repeated. “I heard it with my own ears.” Then he broke out with some of his old vehemence, “Good God, de Trélan, why won’t you believe me?—If this were not true, why do you think I have ridden nearly eighty miles, ill as I am, in this mad haste?”
The man he had so treacherously used continued to look at him. He had not raised his own voice at all, and it was low now, unhurried, and colder than the wind from glaciers. “That is a question which only you can answer, Monsieur le Comte. I cannot pretend to fathom the motives of a man so utterly false as you. I can only suppose that having failed in the past to deprive me of my life . . . and more than my life . . . you are now trying to take from me something more precious than either, my honour. But I am not to be frightened by talk of treachery into breaking my pledged word. You have failed this time also, Monsieur de Brencourt.—Come, gentlemen, it is time to start.”
He had finally turned his back. The Comte, speechless, bowed his head against the high chair to which he was holding. What could he do against this attitude? He had anticipated contempt, hatred, but never disbelief. He lifted his head once more, tried to say, “For your wife’s sake!” but the words stuck in his throat, and besides, the Duc was at the door now with the young men—was descending the steps. All that came to his dry lips was the old tag, “Your blood be on your own head!” Then his limbs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed into the chair, hiding his face in his hands. Outside there were sounds of mounting and of riding away; then silence.
Marthe and her mother, with rather pale faces, looked at each other, and then at the mudstained figure huddled in the chair, the elder woman uneasily, Marthe with distaste. Since the Duc so disbelieved his story, they disbelieved it too. Then Mme de la Vergne, mindful as ever of the claims of hospitality, addressed the stranger.
“May I not order some refreshment for you after your ride, Monsieur?”
At her voice de Brencourt roused himself, and rose stiffly. But he responded by a question.
“This is your house, Madame, I think—not the Duc de Trélan’s?”
“Certainly it is my house,” responded Mme de la Vergne. The gentleman looked ghastly ill, as she now saw.
“Then I should be very glad of a glass of wine . . . before I ride away again. My mission . . . has been fruitless, but I am . . . I have . . .” His voice tailed off into nothing.