"I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"
"She is in Rochelle," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, had
been trapped, by madame's eyes?
"Where is she?" eagerly.
"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."
"Where she is just now I do not know."
"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.
There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on a
wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward
Spain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.
"What boat?" demanded D'Herouville.
"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.
Victor's glance was sullen.
"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak.
"You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You will
compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De
Brissac's play-woman?"
"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before they
examined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.
"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that hoary old
sinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.
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