“You won’t speak? Still, you know that I won’t give way, that I can’t give way, that I hold you and that, if necessary, I shall torture you till you die of it. You won’t speak? You won’t?... Sébastiani, once more.”
The huntsman obeyed. Daubrecq gave a violent start of pain and fell back on his bed with a rattle in his throat.
“You fool!” cried the marquis, shaking with rage. “Why don’t you speak? What, haven’t you had enough of that list? Surely it’s somebody else’s turn! Come, speak.... Where is it? One word. One word only . . . and we will leave you in peace.... And, to-morrow, when I have the list, you shall be free. Free, do you understand? But, in Heaven’s name, speak!... Oh, the brute! Sébastiani, one more turn.”
Sébastiani made a fresh effort. The bones cracked.
“Help! Help!” cried Daubrecq, in a hoarse voice, vainly struggling to release himself. And, in a spluttering whisper, “Mercy . . . mercy.”
It was a dreadful sight.... The faces of the three sons were horror-struck. Lupin shuddered, sick at heart, and realized that he himself could never have accomplished that abominable thing. He listened for the words that were bound to come. He must learn the truth. Daubrecq’s secret was about to be expressed in syllables, in words wrung from him by pain. And Lupin began to think of his retreat, of the car which was waiting for him, of the wild rush to Paris, of the victory at hand.
“Speak,” whispered d’Albufex. “Speak and it will be over.”
“Yes . . . yes . . .” gasped Daubrecq.
“Well...?”
“Later . . . to-morrow....”