“From Florimond.” She was white with agitation.
“From the Marquis de Condillac?” he cried, and he knew not whether to hope or fear. “From Italy?”
“No, monsieur. I do not think from Italy. From what was said I gathered that Florimond is already on his way to Condillac. Oh, it made a fine stir. It left them no more appetite for dinner, and they seem to have thought it could have left me none for mine, for they ordered my instant return to my apartments.”
“Then you know nothing—save that the courier is from the Marquis?”
“Nothing; nor am I likely to,” she answered, and her arms dropped limply to her sides, her eyes looked entreatingly up into his gloomy face.
But Garnache could do no more than rap out an oath. Then he stood still a moment, his eyes on the window, his chin in his hand, brooding. His pride and his desire to know more of that courier’s message were fighting it out again in his mind, just as they fought it out in the courtyard below. Suddenly his glance fell on her, standing there, so sweet, so frail, and so disconsolate. For her sake he must do the thing, repulsive though it might be.
“I must know more,” he exclaimed. “I must learn Florimond’s whereabouts, if only that we may go to meet him when we leave Condillac to-night.”
“You have arranged definitely for that?” she asked, her face lighting.
“All is in readiness,” he assured her. Then, lowering his voice without apparent reason, and speaking quickly and intently, “I must go find out what I can,” he said. “There may be a risk, but it is as nothing to the risk we run of blundering matters through ignorance of what may be afoot. Should any one come—which is unlikely, for all those interested will be in the hall until the courier is dealt with—and should they inquire into my absence, you are to know nothing of it since you have no Italian and I no French. All that you will know will be that you believe I went but a moment since to fetch water. You understand?”
She nodded.