“Unfortunately,” he went on, “there is another count against M. de Marsan--a very grave count. Look yonder, on the platform, Mademoiselle; do you see that thing lying there? An hour since, that was the Vicomte d’Aurilly--now it is a mere heap of carrion. It was M. de Marsan who sprang upon him and wrought the transformation, and M. de Marsan must answer for it.” “A coward and a traitor, Monsieur,” breathed the girl, “not worthy a second thought.” “A coward and a traitor, perhaps,” assented Roquefort; “but, nevertheless, my guest and killed within my house.” I read the implacable purpose in his voice--so did the others, and I saw Claire steadying herself against the wall. How I loved her! And I devoured her sweet face with my eyes. It would be easy to go to death with that image in my heart! She stood a moment so, looking down at me, her eyes dark with horror. What eyes they were! And Roquefort was looking at her too, reading her heart. “Kindly take Mademoiselle to her apartments, Brissac,” he said at last. “She will not care to witness what is to follow.” So the moment had come! “Adieu, Mademoiselle,” I said as calmly as I could. “It is to be adieu this time, it seems. You have done what you could to save me, and I shall die quite happy, knowing that you care. Only,” I added, with a smile I could not make wholly tearless, “it would have been good to live, knowing it--for I love you, Mademoiselle. Pardon my saying it here, before these others--but I must say it--I want you to think of me always as loving you.” Her lips were trembling and her eyes bright with tears. God! To live--life would be worth something now! “M. le Duc,” she asked at last, in a choking voice, “is there no price which will prevent this murder?” He looked from her to me and back again. I saw hot desire leap to life in his eyes as he gazed at her--her face, her arms, the poise of her figure! “Only one, Mademoiselle,” he answered very quietly. “And what is that, Monsieur?” Again he looked at her, dwelling on her beauty, her girlishness, her innocence. “That is yourself, Mademoiselle.” I started from the rack, but the straps held me back. “Mademoiselle,” I cried, hot with rage, “I forbid such a sacrifice--you wife to this scoundrel! His worst with me must be less hideous than that!” But Roquefort waved me to silence.