She laughed: they were quite alone: then came close up to him.
“Would you like to practise again on me, monsieur—to test the softness of her heart by deputy? No?”
“I am no thief,” he said, as if stupefied. “Keep your jewels, for what I care.”
“That is well,” she answered mockingly, “since they are bespoken by another. Only I love an intrigue.”
He commanded himself by a great effort; assumed a chilling masterfulness, if he did not feel it.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I cannot pretend to know on what false and vicious assumptions you are daring thus to impeach my honour. They are mistaken, whatever they are; and let that suffice for you.”
Fanchette set her lips tight, and nodded her head once or twice.
“O! very well,” she said. “There is no harm done. If I am mistaken I am mistaken, that is all.”
He should have gone; but he unwisely lingered.
“I believe,” he said, “I ought to probe this to the bottom. Only gossip takes good care to be elusive.”