"Well, you are grumpy!" he cried out pettishly. "You must be out of grace." He seemed to decide that nothing was to be made out of me just now on this tack, and with unabated persistence tried another.
"Is it true, Félix, what one of the men said just now, that you tried to speak with Monsieur this morning when he drove out?"
"Yes. But Monsieur did not recognize me."
"Like enough," Marcel answered. "He has a way of late of falling into these absent fits. Monsieur is not the man he was."
"He does look older," I said, "and worn. I trow the risk he is running—"
"Pshaw!" cried Marcel, with scorn. "Is Monsieur a man to mind risks? No; it is M. le Comte."
I started like a guilty thing, remembering what Yeux-gris had told me and I, wrapped in my petty troubles, had forgotten. Monsieur had lost his only son. And I had chosen this time to defy him!
"How long ago was it?" I asked in a hushed voice.
"Since M. le Comte left us? It will be three weeks next Friday."
"How did he die?"