“I am glad I had not gone out, Monsieur de Brencourt,” she said in an ordinary tone, such as she had managed to preserve nearly all the time in these days of strain. “I was only waiting for Roland to return.”
And then she saw his face and said, quite quietly, “I am afraid you bring some bad news.”
“It is not good.” His voice—he heard it himself—was the voice of a stranger.
“The plan has miscarried somehow, Comte—you have come to tell me that?”
He bent his head. “Yes. Yes, Madame. I . . . came to tell you that.”
A pause. Slowly, slowly the colour faded in the face over the grey fur collar that he would see to the end of the world.
“It will not be carried out to-night, then?”
(“Nor any other night.”) No, he lacked courage to say that yet.
“No, Madame. It . . . it . . . it has proved impossible.”
“This cloak is too hot,” said Valentine de Trélan suddenly. She unfastened the collar. “Perhaps I will not go out after all.” She made as if she were going to throw it off, then sat down instead in the armchair by the fire. “But time is precious, Monsieur de Brencourt,” she said, looking at him fixedly—he could feel that, though he could not meet her eyes.