"To give you this," Philibert exclaimed gaily, handing him a packet. "Take it; your battle is won."
With incredulous wonder Lecour looked at the parcel.
"Do you know who I am?" the stranger cried.
"You are Philibert," replied Lecour.
"I am The Instrument of Vengeance," the other corrected, and departed without a bow.
On opening the packet Germain, to his utter astonishment, found de Lotbinière's Record, the precious armoury collected with so much labour by his enemies and so necessary to their case.
As he looked over the documents it contained and felt the sharpness of the different thrusts, he turned hot and dizzy; but the fact that this great find was in his possession, and lost to his opponents, gave him inexpressible satisfaction. He pored over them till far past midnight, when at last his feeling of exultation gave way to overwhelming remorse. His aspect suddenly became that of haggard misery itself; his head dropped, and he murmured in a low, agonised voice, "Is poor Germain Lecour really a liar, a pretender, a forger, a——" Aghast, his lips refused to pronounce the word.
His head dropped still lower; at the movement something fell out of his breast upon the floor. For some moments he did not perceive it. "Yet these things—liar, pretender, forger—what are they more than words contrived by the powerful to condemn the doings of the weak? Whom have I wronged? Have not I only defended myself? Why should the contrivances of society—not mine—stand between me and all that is worth living for?" His glance at length lighted upon the object which had fallen from his bosom—a large locket. The fall had sprung open its lid, and he was face to face with the miniature image of Cyrène. The light of his consuming passion flamed in his strangely transformed eyes.
"For you, everything," he murmured, sobbing.