“He does not seem to be in any great haste to do so,” observed the other, half to himself, and his eyes suddenly moved to the clenched hand.
“I am too much amazed at your attack on my kinsman,” retorted the Marquis, in a voice unlike his own. “It is incredible that such a thing should be said in France of M. de Trélan—that he could have saved his wife and did not!”
The Comte shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know that it is what others say, for I imagine that few people trouble their heads about de Trélan now-a-days. But it is what I think—though as a matter of fact you are putting more into my words than I actually uttered. Perhaps I am prejudiced. I knew that lady many years ago,” he went on, with lowered eyes, fidgeting with the cards again, “the most gracious of God’s creatures, and to remember that she went, abandoned by everybody, through that door, saw, as her last glimpse of life, those obscene faces, that gutter running with blood, that mound of——”
The priest jumped up and seized him by the arm. “For God’s sake, stop, Monsieur de Brencourt!” he whispered. “Do you not know that most of M. de Kersaint’s family perished in the massacres!”
And at that the Comte did stop. After a moment M. de Kersaint removed the hand with which he had covered his eyes.
“I should indeed be glad if you would spare me that subject,” he said, in a scarcely audible voice, not looking at either of them. Even the one remaining candle showed him to be frightfully pale. “I . . . I cannot . . . perhaps we should finish this discussion . . . in the morning. It is already very late.”
“Yes, it is very late,” agreed the Comte, plainly rather horrified. He leant over the table. “Can you forgive me, Marquis? Of course I was not aware, and I regret——”
“I knew that,” said M. de Kersaint with a palpable effort, and touched the hand which the other held out. And so ended the reception of Mlle Magny’s wedding gift.