The priest shook his head.
“None,” he answered; “there have been too many plots, too many intrigues; they will make an example of him. The whole weight of the Marquis de Nançay’s influence, never greater than now, will be thrown into the scale against the prisoner.”
“Ay,” remarked Michel sternly, “’tis his opportunity to be rid of a troublesome rival, and marvellously well planned too, if I mistake not.”
“I fear so,” said Père Antoine thoughtfully; “it has worked out strangely, at least. Certainly, M. de Bruneau’s death is in his favor.”
“I am sorry for the accused,” said the clockmaker; “I remember him from a lad of twelve. ’Tis a sad end for a young man and a soldier. Did you tell him aught of that matter whereof we spoke before?” he added, glancing anxiously at the priest.
Père Antoine shook his head. “Nay,” he answered. “How would it profit us? He is as good as a dead man, so could not aid us if he would, and I have never been sure that he would. He is a feather-brain, and we cannot put so weighty a matter into idle or desperate hands. He cannot aid us, but he might work us some mischief with his careless tongue even now. I deemed it best that he should die in ignorance of that which would not serve him, and might harm others.”
“I have felt much as you do, father,” Michel rejoined, after a moment’s silence; “once or twice he came here to the shop, talking with me freely, yet I did not wholly trust him. He seemed to me a harebrained, ambitious young man, desiring nothing so much as his own aggrandizement and not likely to welcome the thought that one stood ahead of him upon the road to name and fortune.”
The priest did not immediately reply; he was leaning forward and fingering out a silent piece of music on the table with his slender fingers.
“There might have been some question as to his claim,” he said thoughtfully; “in a case like this, where there is confiscation, he might have had a better chance than the true heir.”
Madame Michel drew her breath deeply, clasping her hands to her bosom.