But this particular matter greatly interested Ranulph and de Mauprat. They leaned forward eagerly, seizing every word, and both instinctively turned towards Detricand when the description of de Tournay was read.
As for Detricand himself, he listened to the first part of the letter like a man suddenly roused out of a dream. For the first time since the Revolution had begun, the horror of it and the meaning of it were brought home to him. He had been so long expatriated, had loitered so long in the primrose path of daily sleep and nightly revel, had fallen so far, that he little realised how the fiery wheels of Death were spinning in France, or how black was the torment of her people. His face turned scarlet as the thing came home to him now. He dropped his head in his hand as if to listen more attentively, but it was in truth to hide his emotion. When the names of Vaufontaine and de Tournay were mentioned, he gave a little start, then suddenly ruled himself to a strange stillness. His face seemed presently to clear; he even smiled a little. Conscious that de Mauprat and Delagarde were watching him, he appeared to listen with a keen but impersonal interest, not without its effect upon his scrutinisers. He nodded his head as though he understood the situation. He acted very well; he bewildered the onlookers. They might think he tallied with the description of the Comte de Tournay, yet he gave the impression that the matter was not vital to himself. But when the little Chevalier stopped and turned his eye-glass upon him with sudden startled inquiry, he found it harder to keep composure.
“Singular—singular!” said the old man, and returned to the reading of the letter.
When he ended there was absolute silence for a moment. Then the chevalier lifted his eye-glass again and looked at Detricand intently.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” he said, “but you were with Rullecour—as I was saying.”
Detricand nodded with a droll sort of helplessness, and answered: “In Jersey I never have chance to forget it, Chevalier.”
Du Champsavoys, with a naive and obvious attempt at playing counsel, fixed him again with the glass, pursed his lips, and with the importance of a greffier at the ancient Cour d’Heritage, came one step nearer to his goal.
“Have you knowledge of the Comte de Tournay, monsieur?”
“I knew him—as you were saying, Chevalier,” answered Detricand lightly.
Then the Chevalier struck home. He dropped his fingers upon the table, stood up, and, looking straight into Detricand’s eyes, said: