"You know what you affirmed, Madame," said Maurice, with profound contempt. "I now see that you told the truth. You indeed do not love Monsieur Morand."
"Maurice! hear me," said Geneviève.
"I have nothing to hear, Madame; you have severed with a single stroke every cord that united my heart with your own. You told me you did not love Morand, but you did not tell me you loved another."
"Sir," said the Chevalier, "what say you of Morand; or rather of what Morand do you speak?"
"Of Morand the chemist."
"Morand the chemist stands before you. Morand the chemist is the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge."
And extending his hand toward the table, he in an instant resumed the black wig which for so long a period had concealed him from the young Republican.
"Ah, yes," said he, with redoubled disdain,—"yes, I understand. It is not Morand that you love, since Morand does not exist; but the subterfuge, for all its acuteness, is none the less contemptible."
The Chevalier made a threatening movement.