“The difficulty of it—indeed the small likelihood there was of my ever seeing him,” he said, “was what mainly induced me to accept the office, though in truth it was compelled. I was doing very well at Dunkerque,” he went on, “and very happy if I had never heard more of prince or priesthood, when Father Fleuriau sent me a hurried intimation that my victim was due at Versailles on Easter and ordered my instant departure there.”
The name of Fleuriau recalled me to my senses. “Stop, stop, Father Hamilton!” I cried, “I must hear no more.”
“What!” said he, bitterly, “is't too good a young gentleman to listen to the confession of a happy murderer that has failed at his trade?”
“I have no feeling left but pity,” said I, almost like to weep at this, “but you have been put into this cell along with me for a purpose.”
“And what might that be, M. Greig?” he asked, looking round about him, and seeing for the first time, I swear, the sort of place he was in. “Faith! it is comfort, at any rate; I scarce noticed that, in my pleasure at seeing Paul Greig again.”
“You must not tell me any more of your Jesuit plot, nor name any of those involved in the same, for Buhot has been at me to cock an ear to everything you may say in that direction, and betray you and your friends. It is for that he has put us together into this cell.”
“Pardieu! am not I betrayed enough already?” cried the priest, throwing up his hands. “I'll never deny my guilt.”
“Yes,” I said, “but they want the names of your fellow conspirators, and Buhot says they never expect them directly from you.”
“He does, does he?” said the priest, smiling. “Faith, M. Buhot has a good memory for his friend's characteristics. No, M. Greig, if they put this comfortable carcase to the rack itself. And was that all thy concern? Well, as I was saying—let us speak low lest some one be listening—this Father Fleuriau-”
Again I stopped him.