“How know you this, Jacques?” asked de Proballe, when he had heard the news.
“I overheard him last night speaking to Mademoiselle Lucette and saying he had grave news which he must tell miladi at once about M. de Cobalt.”
“That may not mean what you say.”
“I fear that it did, m’sieu. The two are lovers, it seems, and like a woman she was trying to wheedle the facts out of him. He was loath to tell her and sought to put her off; but she got something from him. He said M. de Cobalt was a scoundrel—he has a scurrilous tongue this Denys—and, saving your presence, m’sieu, he said that de Cobalt was but a tool in the hands of greater scoundrels. Shamed I am that my lips should have to speak the words, but your lordship must know the truth—he named you and His Grace the Duke de Rochelle.”
“In the devil’s name, this is serious then,” exclaimed de Proballe angrily. “How much does he know?”
“Indeed, m’sieu, I cannot say. He hinted at an intercepted letter, but he was called away soon. I can only infer he has made an important discovery. But the girl was terribly alarmed.”
“It may ruin everything. Have you breathed a whisper to a soul?”
“Have I served you all these years to betray you?” and he spread his hands out and spoke as if in sorrow that such a suspicion should even be named. “That she suspects something I know to be true indeed.”
“Tell me. Quick, Jacques, I am uneasy.”
“Purposefully I put myself in her way, m’sieu. She is a pretty girl enough and thinks, forsooth, that all men can be wheedled by her glances. She led round artfully to the subject and plied me with questions, all inspired, as I could see, by what this Denys had told her. She did not find me easy to draw, m’sieu,” and he smiled with deprecating reference to his secrecy. “But ’twas easy to see what was in her thoughts.”