They sat opposite each other, neither speaking. Jack glanced at a heavy steel rod on the floor beside him. It was just as well to know it was there, in case of need.
"Monsieur," said the marquis, abruptly, "I owe you a great deal more than my life, which is nothing; I owe you my family honour."
This was a new way of looking at the situation; Jack fidgeted in his chair and eyed the marquis.
"Thanks to you," he continued, quietly, "I am not an assassin, I am not a butcher of dogs. The De Nesvilles were never public executioners--they left that to the Bonapartes and Monsieur de Paris."
He rose hastily from his chair and held out a hand. Jack took it warily and returned the nervous pressure. Then they both resumed their seats.
"Let us clear matters up," said the marquis in a wonderfully gentle voice, that would have been fascinating to more phlegmatic men than Jack--"let us clear up everything and understand each other. You, monsieur, dislike me; pardon--you dislike me for reasons of your own. I, on the contrary, like you; I like you better this moment than I ever did. Had you not come as I expected, had you not entered, had you refused to mount to the turret, I still should have liked you. Now I also respect you."
Jack twisted and turned in his chair, not knowing what to think or say.
"Why do you dislike me?" asked the marquis, quietly.
"Because you are not kind to your daughter," said Jack, bluntly.
To his horror the man's eyes filled with tears, big, glittering tears that rolled down his immovable face. Then a flush stained his forehead; the fever in his cheeks dried the tears.
"Jack," he said, calling the young fellow by his name with a peculiarly tender gesture, "I loved my son. My soul died within me when René died, there on the muddy pavement of the Paris boulevards. I sometimes think I am perhaps a little out of my mind; I brood on it too much. That is why I flung myself into this"--with a sweep of his arm towards the flasks and machinery piled around. "Lorraine is a girl, sweet, lovable, loyal. But she is not my daughter."
"Lorraine!" stammered Jack.
"Lorraine."
The young fellow sat up in his chair and studied the face of the pale man before him.
"Not--your child?"
"No."
"Whose?"
"I cannot tell."
After a silence the marquis stood up, and walked to the window. His face was haggard, his hair dishevelled.
"No," he said, "Lorraine is not my daughter. She is not even my heiress. She was--she was--found, eighteen years ago."