"Pardon, monsieur le marquis?"
"I inquire if you respected it at the time; did you spare him all needless suffering?"
"There is no suffering," said Robichon. "So swift is the knife that—"
The host made a gesture of impatience. "I refer to mental suffering.
Cannot you realise the emotions of an innocent man condemned to a
shameful death!"
"Innocent! As for that, they all say that they are innocent."
"I do not doubt it. Victor, however, spoke the truth. I know it. He was my son."
"Your son?" faltered Robichon, aghast.
"My only son—the only soul I loved on earth. Yes; he was innocent, monsieur Roux. And it was you who butchered him—he died by your hands."
"I—I was but the instrument of the law," stammered Robichon. "I was not responsible for his fate, myself."
"You have given a masterly lecture, monsieur Roux," said the Marquis musingly; "I find myself in agreement with all that you said in it— you are his murderer,' I hope the wine is to your taste, monsieur Roux? Do not spare it!"
"The wine?" gasped the actor. He started to his feet, trembling—he understood.