"I shall not try to force your confidence, my dear girl," I said. "Tell me only what you think you ought."
"Belle trusts me implicitly," she said simply.
"And I want her to continue to. The something else that makes her loathe him—are you free to speak of that?"
"It's nothing; it's ridiculous." She laughed nervously. "He has tried to make love to her. Ugh!" She shuddered at the idea.
"The dickens he has!"
Such a thought had never entered my head; it was impossible to imagine that slippery rascal in the role of an ardent lover. His blood was as cold as a fish's. But now I understood the fellow's animus toward Maillot; his hatred was inspired by jealousy. Belle had never spoken of the matter to Maillot—mortification was potent to hold this confidence in check—but he had instinctively distrusted and disliked Burke in return.
I could not bring myself to confide in my lovely coadjutor my convictions respecting her uncle. I learned that he had left the house that morning at an hour unusually early for him, and I thought at once of the queer memorandum on his calendar. He was still very much worried, declared Genevieve, and when at home kept more and more to himself as time went by. Mrs. Fluette was asleep after the night's ordeal with her daughter.
"If Royal were free to come after her," said Genevieve, not without some bitterness, "he could carry Belle away this very minute; there would be nobody to say him nay. Poor boy!"
"It is more than likely that he shall soon," I offered in dubious comfort. And then we got down to the purpose of my call.
"Do you know where your aunt and uncle were married?" I asked.