“I had rather, certainly, that he met his end at your hands than at Nicky’s,” Carlyon replied.
Francis’ eyes lifted swiftly to his face, very wide open. “So you know that, do you?” he said softly. “Now, how do you know that, Carlyon?”
“You told me so.”
“Did I indeed? And how did I do so?”
“A slip of your too ready tongue,” Carlyon said. “You informed us that De Castres had been stabbed and his body left under a bush. But it was not so stated in the journal from which you said you had culled the tidings. I discovered it to be the precise truth.”
“Yes, you know, this habit of yours—I have referred to it before—of fastening on trivial points is scarcely endearing,” said Francis with a slight edge to his voice. “How glad I am that at least you had the good taste not to introduce a third person into this interview! It is quite true, of course: I did dispose of poor Louis. I regretted the necessity; indeed, the whole episode was most painful, but what else was to be done? One could not permit an enemy agent to continue his vocation; one had no means of ascertaining how much that was in that memorandum he already knew; and one shrank from laying information against a dear friend. Indeed, it would be unthinkable to do so! Every feeling must be offended by such a notion!”
“Indeed!” Carlyon raised his brows. “I collect that the notion of persuading De Castres, by what false message I know not, to present himself in Lincoln’s Inn Fields so that he might there be murdered, awoke no revulsion in your breast?”
Francis looked a little pained. “My dear Edward, you misjudge me! Nothing could have exceeded my revulsion! Of all things in this world, I shrink most from bloodshed, or, indeed, from any form of violence. Poor dear Louis! Quite one of my oldest friends, you know! So very distressing that he should have taken such an ill-judged step! A man of his birth becoming a spy, and for Bonaparte, of all vulgar persons! One can only wonder at it. I had believed his ton to have been almost as unimpeachable as my own. I confess, it has been a dreadful shock to me. Are you acquainted with his father, the Marquis? A truly estimable creature. It must be an object with his friends to keep the sad truth from him. But as for sending false messages to poor Louis—really, I am overcome whenever I think of him!—I had no need to do anything so repugnant to one’s feelings as a gentleman. He lodged near the Strand; I had an engagement in Holborn; nothing could have been more natural than for him to give me his company. We walked together in perfect amity. It is the greatest comfort to me to reflect that he can never have known what happened to him. Oh, yes! He died almost instantly: it would have been a shocking thing in me to have bungled. I could not have supported the thought that he had suffered. Friendship carries with it the gravest obligations: I have always been sensible of that. I do feel that I performed the last possible office for him. Only fancy if he had been shot as a common spy! I must not allow my mind to dwell on such a horrid thing: it affects me profoundly.”
Carlyon drew a breath. “You should be felicitated on your resolution!” he said.
“Thank you, Carlyon, thank you a thousand times! It is always such a mistake to allow sentiment to outweigh judgment, is it not? I knew you must feel it so.”