His hearer knew the human heart, and the gamut of its exclamations. The best actor could hardly have Gilbert's tearful voice and the feverish gesture accompanying the effusion.
"So this is your lady love?"
"My foster-sister, yes."
"Then you lied a while ago when you said you knew her not, and you are a liar, if not a traitor."
"You are racking my heart and you would hurt me less were you to slay me on the spot."
"Pooh! that is a mere piece of fustian out of the Diderot or Marmontel books. You are a liar, sir."
"Have it so, and the worse for you that you do not understand such white lies!" retorted Gilbert. "I shall go, heartbroken, and you will have my despair on your conscience."
Rousseau smoothed his chin and regarded the youth whose case had so much analogy with his own.
"He is either a great rogue or a lad with a big heart," he mused; "but after all, if he is in a plot against me, it will be best to have the wires of the puppets in my hand."
Gilbert strode to the door, but he paused with his hand on the knob, waiting for the last word to recall or banish him.