“Well?” she went on after awhile, seeing that Deydier made no comment, that his pipe had gone out, and that he was staring moodily into the fire. Even now he gave her no reply, although she rattled the silver on the sideboard so as to attract his attention. Finally, she knelt down in front of the hearth and made a terrific clatter with the fire-irons. Even then, Jaume Deydier only said: “Well?” too.
“Has the child told you anything?” Margaï went on tartly. She had never been kept out of family councils before and had spent the last hour in anticipation of being called into the parlour.
“Why, what should she tell me?” Deydier retorted with exasperating slowness.
“Tiens! that she is in love with Bertrand de Ventadour, and wants to marry him.”
Deydier gave a startled jump as if a pistol shot had rung in his ear, and his pipe fell with a clatter to the ground.
“Nicolette in love with Bertrand,” he cried with well-feigned astonishment. “Whoever told thee such nonsense?”
“No one,” the old woman replied dryly. “I guessed.”
Then as Deydier relapsed into moody silence, she added irritably:
“Don’t deny it, Mossou Deydier. The child told you.”
“I don’t deny it,” he replied gravely.