“That’s it!.... Thank you, Daubrecq. And, believe me, I shall never forget what you have just done. If ever you’re in need, you have only to knock at my door and there will always be a crust of bread for you in the kitchen and a glass of water from the filter. Sébastiani, look after monsieur le député as if he were one of your sons. And, first of all, release him from his bonds. It’s a heartless thing to truss one’s fellow-man like that, like a chicken on the spit!”
“Shall we give him something to drink?” suggested the huntsman.
“Yes, that’s it, give him a drink.”
Sébastiani and his sons undid the leather straps, rubbed the bruised wrists, dressed them with an ointment and bandaged them. Then Daubrecq swallowed a few drops of brandy.
“Feeling better?” said the marquis. “Pooh, it’s nothing much! In a few hours, it won’t show; and you’ll be able to boast of having been tortured, as in the good old days of the Inquisition. You lucky dog!”
He took out his watch. “Enough said! Sébastiani, let your sons watch him in turns. You, take me to the station for the last train.”
“Then are we to leave him like that, monsieur le marquis, free to move as he pleases?”
“Why not? You don’t imagine that we are going to keep him here to the day of his death? No, Daubrecq, sleep quietly. I shall go to your place to-morrow afternoon; and, if the document is where you told me, a telegram shall be sent off at once and you shall be set free. You haven’t told me a lie, I suppose?”
He went back to Daubrecq and, stooping over him again:
“No humbug, eh? That would be very silly of you. I should lose a day, that’s all. Whereas you would lose all the days that remain to you to live. But no, the hiding-place is too good. A fellow doesn’t invent a thing like that for fun. Come on, Sébastiani. You shall have the telegram to-morrow.”