“But I must not lose a moment in going to Bertin and the others,” said the young man. “We may all find ourselves in prison before nightfall—and to no purpose. Besides, I am a stranger to her; you an old acquaintance—the Duc’s late chief of staff. You are the man, Comte. Tell her the whole plan has failed—tell her her husband is suddenly taken ill—tell her anything to soften the blow!” And he was gone.
The Comte sank down and buried his head in his arms. “I told her that he was dead, once. Now it is true—now it is true!”
He could not do it. He must find someone else. Roland—he would break the news best, if he could get hold of him. O God, to think he had once wished this, had lied for it, had tried to bring it about with his own hand! And—shot at Mirabel! The idea was profoundly shocking to him even in the midst of the shock of the execution itself. He seemed to recall a hateful precedent for it, for he remembered the young Prince de Talmont, captured in the Vendean war and shot in front of the castle of Laval, which had belonged to his family for nine centuries.
What was the time? Suppose Mme de Trélan were to go to the Temple this morning! “The Duc is gone, Madame la Duchesse; he has driven out to his château of Mirabel. Will Madame follow?” Why did he see the Temple as it had once been, a princely residence, and why did he imagine that dialogue? He must be going mad. She would not go there to-day; the order was for yesterday. Yesterday she had seen him; and did not know she should see him no more in life.
Or stay, suppose Valentine had taken a fancy to visit Mirabel this morning with Roland. It was most unlikely that she would do such a thing; yet his distracted mind showed him the Duchesse and Roland arriving there and finding God knew what—soldiers, a crowd, and in front of the great façade——
M. de Brencourt sprang up. That wholly baseless picture decided him. He could not let her run that dreadful risk. Oblivious of the fact that, long before she got to Mirabel, if ever she went, she must meet the tidings of what had taken place there, he crammed on his hat, and without a redingote, despite the cold, rushed out in the direction of the Rue de Seine.
“No, M. de Céligny has gone out,” replied Suzon’s servant. “Mme de Trélan is within.”
His last hope was vanished then. He never thought of Mme Tessier. There was no help for it. Far rather would he have been in the dead man’s place at Mirabel.
He was only just in time, apparently, for the first thing that he saw on being ushered into Mme Tessier’s parlour was Valentine’s hat and gloves on the table. And she, standing by the hearth, had her cloak on already—a grey cloak with grey fur at the throat, in which he would always see her now to the end of the world. He contrived, he knew not how, to get across the room and to kiss her hand before she noticed anything unusual.