He dropped his eyes. “I heard a rumour,” he said, “that there was a regiment of the soldiers from Holland somewhere on the Vannes road, and that they might not be too particular in the observance of a safe-conduct. That was all; and no doubt it was false . . . and at any rate,” he added, his bitterness getting the better of him again, “M. de Trélan saw fit not only to disregard my warning, but to insult me into the bargain.”
“Not to observe the safe-conduct!” exclaimed the Duchesse sharply. “But that is unthinkable!”
(Yes, anything but his peril had passed her by; that was clear.)
“You are right, it is really unthinkable,” he answered wearily. “I was a fool to come, and I will relieve you of my presence.”
He meant, indeed, on that to walk straight out of the place. But he was not a young man; he had been ill; he had asked too much of his body. His head turned once more, and violently; he caught at the arm of the chair from which he had risen, and, not to fall altogether, slid back into it. And then the mud, the pallor, the deadly fatigue were all visible to Valentine, and she realised with a shock the thing he had done—for her. He saw it in her face as she came to him.
“You do believe me then, Valentine? It may not be true, but I believed it!” he said confusedly, forgetting that he had not revealed the heart of the peril. “And I tried to stop him—against my will, yes, against my will! But you do believe me,—in spite of the past?”
The hoarse words were torn out of him, and when she let him have her hand as she bent over him, he put his head down on it and broke into a moment’s strangled sobbing.