"Will they do that?" asked Bertie. "Will they execute so miserable a wretch as this?"
"Bien sûr, they will. Was there ever a Jesuit who forgave?"
"What has he done? They say he has slain a priest."
But the other was not to be entrapped like this, so, with a wink, he replied: "Monsieur, you should know by now that Madame La Bastille keeps her secrets well. But this I will tell you," and he pointed as he spoke to Fordingbridge, who was writhing on his bed, though none in the room could guess whether he understood what was being said or not, "he is doomed. And since he appears likely to escape the examiners if there is much more delay, his time will not be long now. Not long. Not very long! Oh, no! Bon jour, messieurs, I have my report to make to the Governor. Yet, since we must not lose our friend, I will send him a draught."
Whether the creature' really made his report as he said he should, and thereby hastened Fordingbridge's end, Bertie Elphinston never knew, but at any rate it came soon afterwards.
It was on one night, one 14th of May, when the weather had taken an extraordinary change, and all the warmth of the coming summer seemed to have disappeared and winter to have returned, and when from their window they could see slight flakes of snow mingled with the falling rain, that Bluet, bringing in the supper, appeared to be especially solicitous that Fordingbridge should make a good meal.
"Mangez, mon ami," he said, as the other crouched on his bed, staring round the room with the hunted expression that was always now in his eyes--"mangez bien. Make a good supper. Mon Dieu! you eat nothing of late," and he came over to the table where the others sat and asked their permission to tempt the idiot with some meat and biscuits. Then, as he bent over to take them from the dish, he whispered significantly:
"He goes to-morrow. Before daybreak."
If Bertie had known that the doomed man had, to his other crimes, added that of cowardly slaying his bosom friend Douglas, could it have been possible that into his heart there could have come the feeling--was it pity--that now arose? At last, then, Fordingbridge's end had come; he was to pay for all! And--and--for of such complex emotions are we formed--as Bertie heard that his doom was sealed, he forgot the wrongs he had suffered at this man's hands; he forgot the wreck of his and of Kate's life; if he did not forgive him, he compassionated him. Rising from his chair he went over to the bed where Fordingbridge was seated, and on which he shrank from him as he approached, and, pointing to the biscuit he held in his trembling hands, he said, very gently, "Eat, Fordingbridge, eat. It will do you good. And, see, you have nothing to drink," and going back to the table he poured out a cup of wine and brought it to him.
With still trembling hands the madman took it from him, glinting at him over the cup as though afraid, and watching him as though fearful that at any moment a blow might be dealt; and then, when he had drained the last drop, he began slowly to munch the biscuit, which he kept shut in the palm of his hand, as though someone was about to take it from him.