The Comte held out his hand to him. “If I could bring myself really to believe that he is dead,” he said painfully, “I would thank you in her name. But I cannot believe it—even after telling her so.”
“Oh, God knows it’s true enough,” responded the young hussar, passing his hand for a moment over his eyes.
“Where was it carried out—this iniquity?” demanded M. de Brencourt abruptly.
“In front of one of the central towers, below which the concierge used to live. It was the Duc’s own choice, when he was asked if he had any preference; I do not know the reason for it.”
M. de Brencourt did. He turned away.
And, even as he turned, the door of the little room opened, and in came, not Roland, as he expected—but the Abbé Chassin.
“You!” exclaimed the Comte, staring at him in astonishment. They had not met since the memorable day in the thicket by the road; moreover he thought the Abbé still in England.
Travelstained, his eyes red-rimmed for lack of sleep, his round face drawn and shadowed, the little priest looked not only twenty years older, but as if the heart had gone out of him for ever.
“I have journeyed day and night since I heard he was taken,” he said in a dulled voice. “I know now that I am too late. My God, my God!”
“How did you learn it? Have you seen Mme de Trélan?”