Among his guests, one only, who was seated almost opposite Bergenheim, seemed to be in the secret of his thoughts and to study the symptoms with deep attention. Gerfaut, for it was he, showed an interest in this examination which reacted on his own countenance, for he was paler than ever.
“When I saw that the hare was reaching the upper road,” said one of the guests, a handsome old man about sixty years of age, with gray hair and rosy cheeks, “I ran toward the new clearing to wait for its return. I felt perfectly sure, notary, that he would pass through your hands safe and sound.”
“Now, notary,” said Marillac, from the other end of the table, “defend yourself; one, two, three, ready!”
“Monsieur de Camier,” replied the hunter whose skill had been questioned, “I do not pretend to have your skill. I never have shot as large game as you did at your last hunt.”
This reply was an allusion to a little misadventure which had happened to the first speaker, who, on account of nearsightedness, had shot a cow, taking it for a buck. The laugh, which had been at the notary’s expense first, now turned against his adversary.
“How many pairs of boots did you get out of your game?” asked one.
“Gentlemen, let us return to our conversation,” said a young man, whose precise face aspired to an austere and imposing air. “Up to this time, we can form only very vague conjectures as to the road that Lambernier took to escape. This, allow me to say, is more important than the notary’s hare or Monsieur de Carrier’s cow.”
At these words, Bergenheim, who had taken no part in the conversation, straightened up in his chair.
“A glass of Sauterne,” said he, suddenly, to one of his neighbors.
Gerfaut looked at him stealthily for a moment, and then lowered his eyes, as if he feared his glance might be noticed.