'What is it
you--you--have just said?' she murmured. 'I cannot hear.' And
she began to fumble with the ribbon of her mask.
'Only this, Mademoiselle,' I answered gently. 'I give your
brother back his word, his parole. From this moment he is free
to go whither he pleases. Here, where we stand, four roads meet.
That to the right goes to Montauban, where you have doubtless
friends, and can lie hid for a time. Or that to the left leads
to Bordeaux, where you can take ship if you please. And in a
word, Mademoiselle,' I continued, ending a little feebly, 'I hope
that your troubles are now over.'
She turned her face to me--we had both come to a standstill--and
plucked at the fastenings of her mask. But her trembling fingers
had knotted the string, and in a moment she dropped her hand with
a cry of despair. 'But you? You?' she wailed in a voice so
changed that I should not have known it for hers. 'What will you
do? I do not understand, Monsieur.'
'There is a third road,' I answered. 'It leads to Paris. That
is my road, Mademoiselle. We part here.'
'But why?' she cried wildly.
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