“What does my father do,” resumed Gabriel, “in that room at the top of the house? Does he tell you that secret?”
“He makes experiments in chemistry. You know that that was always his favourite study. You smile again! Gabriel, do not smile so; it appalls me. Do you think there is some mystery in that chamber?”
“It matters not what we think, belle-mere; it matters much what we know. If I were you, I would know what is in that chamber. I repeat, to be safe, you must have all his secrets, or none. Hush, that is his step!”
The door-handle turned noiselessly, and Olivier entered. His look fell on his son’s face, which betrayed only apparent surprise at his unexpected return. He then glanced at Lucretia’s, which was, as usual, cold and impenetrable.
“Gabriel,” said Dalibard, gently, “I have come in for you. I have promised to take you to spend the day at M. Bellanger’s; you are a great favourite with Madame. Come, my boy. I shall be back soon, Lucretia. I shall but drop in to leave Gabriel at my cousin’s.”
Gabriel rose cheerfully, as if only alive to the expectation of the bon-bons and compliments he received habitually from Madame Bellanger.
“And you can take your drawing implements with you,” continued Dalibard. “This good M. Bellanger has given you permission to copy his Poussin.”
“His Poussin! Ah, that is placed in his bedroom [It is scarcely necessary to observe that bedchambers in Paris, when forming part of the suite of reception-rooms, are often decorated no less elaborately than the other apartments], is it not?”
“Yes,” answered Dalibard, briefly.
Gabriel lifted his sharp, bright eyes to his father’s face. Dalibard turned away.