And when Denys was dead, he would tell Lucette that it was his hand that secretly had killed him; and that mocking laugh of hers would change to a gasp of fear of him. That would be something like a revenge, and he gloated in fancy over the picture of Lucette's fear-stricken face when she knew.
"Let her laugh then, if she can," he said to himself; and when the hour came for him to go to his master, he had his tale ready and told it artfully with a hundred touches which all calculated to appeal to de Proballe's imagination and spur his alarm.
"How know you this, Jacques?" asked de Proballe, when he had heard the news.
"I overheard him last night speaking to Mademoiselle Lucette and saying he had grave news which he must tell miladi at once about M. de Cobalt."
"That may not mean what you say."
"I fear that it did, m'sieu. The two are lovers, it seems, and like a woman she was trying to wheedle the facts out of him. He was loath to tell her and sought to put her off; but she got something from him. He said M. de Cobalt was a scoundrel—he has a scurrilous tongue this Denys—and, saving your presence, m'sieu, he said that de Cobalt was but a tool in the hands of greater scoundrels. Shamed I am that my lips should have to speak the words, but your lordship must know the truth—he named you and His Grace the Duke de Rochelle."
"In the devil's name, this is serious then," exclaimed de Proballe angrily. "How much does he know?"
"Indeed, m'sieu, I cannot say. He hinted at an intercepted letter, but he was called away soon. I can only infer he has made an important discovery. But the girl was terribly alarmed."
"It may ruin everything. Have you breathed a whisper to a soul?"
"Have I served you all these years to betray you?"
