He has a dangerous smile, this servant, and speaks with an air, said Lucette to herself.
She is going to try and pump me, was Pascal’s unspoken warning to himself.
“Don’t know, monsieur! How can that be?”
“It depends upon what we reckon long; whether by lapse of time—weeks, months, years—or by the events which have occurred. A man may know a maiden for years until he marry her, and then find that he has never known her at all.”
“Ah, you are a wit.”
“What I am I myself know not; but I know what I am not—and I am not a stream in which people, even pretty maids, can fish with a chance of catching much.”
“There is another thing you are not, monsieur,” retorted Lucette, smiling.
“There are many. I am not my master’s diary, for others to read,” he answered with a laugh and a shake of the head.
“Neither are you a servant, monsieur, unless you wear your master’s jewels on your fingers.”
“By my shroud, but you have keen eyes as well as pretty ones; but even sharp eyes may lead one astray. I wear this jewel by my master’s whim,” he replied unabashed.