The Governor watched him with a face controlled to quietness, but with an anxiety which made him pale in spite of himself.
“What will you do, Grassette?” he said, at last, in a low voice and with a step forward to him. “Will you not help to clear your conscience by doing this thing? You don’t want to try and spite the world by not doing it. You can make a lot of your life yet, if you are set free. Give yourself and give the world a chance. You haven’t used it right. Try again.”
Grassette imagined that the Governor did not remember who Bignold was, and that this was an appeal against his despair, and against revenging himself on the community which had applauded his sentence. If he went to the Gulch, no one would know or could suspect the true situation, every one would be unprepared for that moment when Bignold and he would face each other—and all that would happen then.
Where was Marcile? Only Bignold knew. Alive or dead? Only Bignold knew.
“Bien, I will do it, m’sieu’,” he said to the Governor. “I am to go alone—eh?”
The Sheriff shook his head. “No; two warders will go with you—and myself.”
A strange look passed over Grassette’s face. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then he said again: “Bon, I will go.”
“Then there is, of course, the doctor,” said the Sheriff.
“Bon!” said Grassette. “What time is it?”
“Twelve o’clock,” answered the Sheriff, and made a motion to the warder to open the door of the cell.