‘Your divination is again right.’
‘And that woman is the Marchioness of Brinvilliers.’
‘I mentioned no name,’ said Sainte-Croix quickly.
‘You did not,’ replied Exili; ‘and yet I knew it. You cannot suppose that I should remain ignorant of what has been the gossip of the shops and carrefours of Paris throughout many a fine spring afternoon this year.’
‘Her husband never knew it,’ said Sainte-Croix, for the minute thrown off his guard, and admitting the truth of what had been a random venture on the part of Exili.
‘In such case the husband is always the last,’ returned the physician, ‘to credit his own dishonour. And yet it was not Antoine Gobelin who sent you here.’
‘You are right once more,’ said Gaudin. ‘It was M. d’Aubray, the lieutenant-civil, her father. Curses wither him!’
The features of Exili assumed an expression that was perfectly fiendish, as he gazed upon Sainte-Croix, who was divesting himself of his garments, and flinging them carelessly about the room here and there, before lying down upon the truckle-bed. Not wishing to extinguish the lamp, yet disliking the glare in his eyes, he had removed it to the chimney-corner, near which was placed a rude table.
‘It is cold!’ he said, as he endeavoured to warm his hands before the dying embers.
‘So I thought last night,’ said Exili; ‘but I am already inured to it. It is, however, a different change for you, from the Hôtel d’Aubray. I am used to strange apartments; and I have no lady-love who may play me false during my imprisonment.’