“No,” he said, trembling, and very low, “time is of no value now.”
But either she had not heard, or she did not understand. He could see that; so he tried again, and got out more. “Madame, I must tell you that the time for this plan is past for ever.”
He felt the impact of these words on her mind, yet he felt also that she was gathering herself up in spirit either to resist their meaning or to infuse fresh will into him. He saw her hands clench themselves a little as she said,
“If that has failed, then, you will make another, a better plan, will you not?”
O, why would she not understand! He raised his eyes at last in agony from her clenched hands to her face. “Valentine . . .” he said, and, had her life depended on it, could get out no other word. His throat had closed up. He turned away and hid his face.
The fire crackled like a burning house; outside in the street a boy was whistling like a fife . . . and yet it was so still.
At last her voice came, and it sounded sick with horror. “Monsieur de Brencourt, what—what, in God’s name, are you trying to tell me?”
“Not to go to the Temple to-day—not to go——”
“They have taken him away?” she interrupted sharply, her hands on the arms of the chair. “Transferred him to another prison?”
At last he turned and faced her, at last he got it out in its entirety. “Yes, he is gone—but not to another prison. He is gone where I wish I were gone too, before I had to tell you. It is all over, Valentine, all over . . .”