“Swear to me, on the life of Ursule whom you love, and on your nobleman’s honor that you think so much of, that you will act as if I had never told you what I am about to tell you, and I will enlighten you as to the cause of the persecutions directed against Mademoiselle Mirouët.”
“Can I stop them?”
“Yes.”
“Can I avenge them?”
“On the author, yes: but on the instrument, no.”
“Why not?”
“Well—the instrument is myself—”
Savinien turned pale.
“I have just caught a glimpse of Ursule—” continued the clerk.
“Ursule?” said the nobleman, looking at Goupil.
“Mademoiselle Mirouët,” rejoined Goupil, rendered respectful by Savinien’s tone, “and I would like to atone with my blood for all that has been done. I am sorry—If you were to kill me in a duel or any other way, what good would my blood do you? Would you drink it? It would poison you at this moment.”
This man’s cool reasoning and his own curiosity subdued Savinien’s boiling blood; he fixed this quasi-hunchback with a look that forced him to lower his eyes.
“Then who employed you?” said the young man.
“Will you swear?”
“Do you want to be sure nothing will be done to you?”
