"Very well," I replied steadfastly. "Good or bad, this man, one day, in defiance of the Cardinal's edict against duelling, fought with a young Englishman behind St. Jacques Church. The Englishman had influence, the person of whom I speak had none, and an indifferent name; he was arrested, thrown into the Châtelet, cast for death, left for days to face death. At the last an offer was made to him. If he would seek out and deliver up another man, an outlaw with a price upon his head, he should himself go free."
I paused and drew a deep breath. Then I continued, looking not at her, but into the distance: "Mademoiselle, it seems easy now to say what course he should have chosen. It seems hard now to find excuses for him. But there was one thing which I plead for him. The task he was asked to undertake was a dangerous one. He risked, he knew he must risk, and the event proved him right, his life against the life of this unknown man. And--one thing more--there was time before him. The outlaw might be taken by another, might be killed, might die, might--. But there, Mademoiselle, we know what answer this person made. He took the baser course, and on his honour, on his parole, with money supplied to him, went free,--free on the condition that he delivered up this other man."
I paused again, but I did not dare to look at her, and after a moment of silence I resumed. "Some portion of the second half of this story you know, Mademoiselle; but not all. Suffice it that this man came down to a remote village, and there at a risk, but Heaven knows, basely enough, found his way into his victim's home. Once there, his heart began to fail him. Had he found the house garrisoned by men, he might have pressed on to his end with little remorse. But he found there only two helpless, loyal women; and I say again that from the first hour of his entrance he sickened of the work he had in hand. Still he pursued it. He had given his word, and if there was one tradition of his race which this man had never broken, it was that of fidelity to his side; to the man that paid him. But he pursued it with only half his mind, in great misery sometimes, if you will believe me, in agonies of shame. Gradually, however, almost against his will, the drama worked itself out before him, until he needed only one thing."
I looked at Mademoiselle. But her head was averted; I could gather nothing from the outlines of her form. And I went on. "Do not misunderstand me," I said, in a lower voice. "Do not misunderstand what I am going to say next. This is no love story, and can have no ending such as romancers love to set to their tales. But I am bound to mention, Mademoiselle, that this man, who had lived about inns and eating-houses, and at the gaming-tables almost all his days, met here for the first time for years a good woman; and learned by the light of her loyalty and devotion to see what his life had been, and what was the real nature of the work he was doing. I think,--nay, I know--that it added a hundredfold to his misery, that when he learned at last the secret he had come to surprise, he learned it from her lips, and in such a way that had he felt no shame, hell could have been no place for him. But in one thing she misjudged him. She thought, and had reason to think, that the moment he knew her secret he went out, not even closing the door, and used it. But the truth was that, while her words were still in his ears, news came to him that others had the secret; and had he not gone out on the instant, and done what he did, and forestalled them, M. de Cocheforêt would have been taken, but by others."
Mademoiselle broke her long silence so suddenly that her horse sprang forward. "Would to Heaven he had!" she wailed.
"Been taken by others?" I exclaimed, startled out of my false composure.
"Oh, yes, yes!" she answered passionately. "Why did you not tell me? Why did you not confess to me even then? I--oh, no more! No more!" she continued, in a piteous voice. "I have heard enough. You are racking my heart, M. de Berault. Some day I will ask God to give me strength to forgive you."
"But you have not heard me out," I replied.
"I want to hear no more," she answered, in a voice she vainly strove to render steady. "To what end? Can I say more than I have said? Did you think I could forgive you now--with him behind us going to his death? Oh, no, no!" she continued. "Leave me! I implore you to leave me. I am not well."
She drooped over her horse's neck as she spoke and began to weep so passionately that the tears ran down her cheeks under her mask, and fell and sparkled like dew on the mane before her; while her sobs shook her so painfully that I thought she must fall. I stretched out my hand instinctively to give her help; but she shrank from me. "No!" she gasped, between her sobs. "Do not touch me. There is too much between us."