“Why did you not come straight to Malincourt, Gerard, or at any rate let me know of your presence in Morvaix, that I might have word with you?”
“If I was doubtful of my reception by Gabrielle, can you blame me?” asked Gerard in reply, dropping readily into his assumed character.
“But I had told you exactly how matters were with her.”
“But I had not seen her with my own eyes.”
“Psh, a sentimental fool’s reason,” exclaimed de Proballe, contemptuously.
“Yet, I am no sentimental fool, monsieur.”
“If you were no worse, you would be lucky. Your kinsman, Raouf, in Paris, gave me your history.”
“He may have lied,” answered Gerard, calmly, suppressing a start at the mention of the name and the coincidence it suggested. “But let it pass. What I have done, I have done. If it comes to that, Raouf gave me no saintly account of you.”
“Paris is not Morvaix, and what I do there or here is no concern of yours or his,” was the curt, half angry reply.
Gerard laughed. “As I said, Raouf may have lied. It is of no account; but I cannot see that in choosing my own method I have done so ill.”