The men took the three bodies and placed them in the canoes. They were somewhat rough with the vicomte's.
"Gently, my brothers," said Nicot. "He was a rascal, but he was a man."
Madame and the Chevalier were alone. To both of them it seemed as though years had passed. Madame was weary. She would have liked to lie down and sleep … forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. He was a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At present he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. His own agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His head ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.
"What did he do to you?" he asked, scarce knowing what he said.
"He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur." She wiped her lips again. "It is of no use. It will always be there."
"You are Madame de Brissac?"
"Yes." The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.
"And you loved Victor?"
Her head drooped. She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an affirmative answer.
"It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place."