“Is it time to be moving?” I asked as he came in, adding, “I fear I have slept late.”
“There is time yet, Vibrac,” he answered, seating himself in the arm-chair and playing with his gloves. There was something on his mind, something he desired to say; but I would not help him, and at last he spoke.
“Gaspard,” he said, “there is a thing I want you to do for me.”
I remained silent, our eyes met for a moment, and then he went on, his voice shaking a little: “I must not see Marie again. The sight of her unmans me. I want you, however, to do this for me”—he pulled from his breast pocket a letter, which he held in his hand—“I want you to give this to Marie. It is my farewell,” and he laughed, a mirthless, nervous laugh.
“Give it to me!” I replied, stretching out my hand; “it will reach madame’s hands in safety.”
“I thank you,” and as he handed me the letter a thought struck me, and it was merely to make conversation that I gave utterance to it, little imagining to what it would lead.
“Has it never occurred to you, Marcilly, that your wife is in very great danger here?”
“I don’t follow,” he answered, though he paled a little.
“Merely this—that if there is any hitch in our attempt, to save herself Catherine will sacrifice every one to the Guise. I doubt if any mercy will be shown to any one belonging to you—and you remember, too, that the St. Andre, and Achon above all, claim your wife’s estates of Chaumont.”
“They would never dare,” he said, but I interrupted him.