"You have hit upon the right way, at last," said the Captain, and my heart bounded in spite of his continued irony of voice and manner. "You beg for mercy, you shall have it. I will give you your life, and your liberty as well: on your part, you will tell me where the Countess de Lavardin is; as soon as I have made sure you have told the truth, I will set you free."
I gazed at him in silence.
"Is not that merciful?" said he; "a full pardon for all your affronts and offences, in return for a trifling piece of information?"
"It is a piece of information I cannot give you," I replied.
"It is a waste of time and words to try to deceive me," said the red Captain. "A young gentleman who risks so much for a lady as you have done, and accomplishes so much for her,—yes, they were wonders of prowess and courage, I admit, and I compliment you upon them,—a young gentleman who does all that for a lady does not so soon lose knowledge of her whereabouts. Do not trifle with me, Monsieur. Where is the Countess? There is no other way by which you can save yourself."
"Do you think, then, a man who has shown the courage and prowess you mention, for the sake of a lady, would save himself by betraying her?"
"Oh, you are young, and may have many years before you—a life of great success and honour. There are other beautiful ladies in the world. In a very short time you can forget this one."
"I think it is for you to forget her," said I on the impulse. "As for me, I would rather die!"
Ah, yes, it was easy enough to die, if that were all: but to leave her to die, and in such a manner, was another thing. Yet I knew she would prefer death, in its worst form, to falling into the unrestrained hands of the red Captain. The man's eyes, from the moment when he introduced her name, betrayed the eagerness of his new hope to make himself her master,—though he still controlled his speech. I say his new hope, for it must have arisen upon the death of the Count, during whose life, not daring openly to play the rival, he had found his only satisfaction in a revenge which provided that none might have what was denied to him. It was for me to decide now whether she should die or find herself at the mercy of Captain Ferragant. Was it right that I should decide for her as she would decide for herself? Was it for me to consign her to death, though I was certain that would be her own choice? Even though the Captain found her, was not life, with its possible chance of future escape, of her being able to move him by tears and innocence, of some friendly interposition of fate, preferable to the sure alternative doom?
"I will leave you to make up your mind quietly," said the Captain. "When you are ready to speak to the point, call to the men in the passage,—one of them will come to me. The door will be left open. I hope you will not be slow in choosing the sensible course: I cannot give you many hours for consideration."