Valentine contemplated his face, quite haggard in the firelight for all its youth, and the tragedy in his eyes.
“Roland,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “I want to tell you something. The Duc sent a message to you and the others through M. Camain. You were not, he said, to distress yourself about what happened at Hennebont, for as his arrest had to come he particularly wished it should take place as quickly as possible, before you could return. He knew quite well, you see, what you would all have done—what you did, alas—and he would not have you killed to no end.”
Roland turned that tragic gaze upon her. “In other words, M. le Duc got himself taken to save us. . . . I wish I were dead!”
The tears were in his voice, not in his eyes, which were quite dry. He turned them on the fire again.
“Do you then love him so much?” asked Valentine softly.
Roland gave her one look; he did not answer in words.
“O my child, my child!” said Mme de Trélan. Her beautiful and expressive voice held a world of meanings, but Roland was back in the coals and the inn parlour. He remembered they had not laid the four covers when he went out of the room; there were only three—or was it two? . . . If he had stayed, he could have died there at his feet before they took him.
“Roland,” said the Duchesse’s voice again, “I want to tell you something else. I did not mean to do so yet . . . but I feel I must.” She made a little pause. “You do not remember your mother, I think?”
He shook his head.
“A long time ago, Roland . . . she and the Duc met . . . and he loved her——”