“So it was,” said I; “and I am well pleased that it is finished. I 'll go down now and look after this calèche they promised me they should have ready for us by this time;” and with this excuse I quitted her, and hastened downstairs again.
I was just making for the door of the salle-à-manger when the hostess overtook me.
“A word with you, monsieur,—one word!” cried she.
“At another moment, madam,” said I, trying to pass on; “I am greatly pressed for time just now.”
“It is exactly for that reason I must speak with you,” said she, firmly; and at the same instant she seized my arm and drew me into a room, of which she closed the door at once. “I suspect the object you have in view, young man,” said she, boldly, to me. “You are eager for a quarrel. The waiters have told me all that has occurred at table; and I can guess what is likely to follow. But surely it is not for one in her position that you will risk your life, or rather sell it; for Carrier would surely kill you!”
“In her position!” said I. “What do you mean? You cannot dare to throw an imputation on one who is little more than a child!”
“True; but a child of shame and infamy,” said she, sternly.
“It is a falsehood,—a damnable falsehood!” cried I. “I knew both her parents: her father died almost in my arms.”
“It is as likely that you never saw her father in your life,” rejoined she, calmly. “I see that you know little of her history; but she comes from the village of Linange, and we Auvergnats are well acquainted with her.”
“Yes, Linange is her native village,—that is true,” cried I, in a vague terror of some dreadful tidings. “Tell me, I beseech you, whatever you know of her story.”