“I hope this good woman will not pay for her kindness,” said Gilbert.
“I trust not,” returned Louis rather absently. “But I can scarcely imagine any one bold enough to call her to account.”
Château-Foix, who was gazing out of the window, turned round and took a good look at him. The bandages visible through his thin and now much-mended shirt, the sling above it, and indeed his whole appearance, thrust again on Gilbert that possibility which he so profoundly wished had never occurred to him.
“How much do you remember of what happened at the Gerbe d’Or?” he asked suddenly.
Louis, who was apparently lost in contemplation of an exceedingly well-shaped leg, looked up in surprise. “What is the Gerbe d’Or? Oh, I recollect. Why, I suppose I remember as much as you do.”
“Then that is not very much,” said his cousin. “Which was the man that stabbed you?”
“Are you vowing vengeance?” asked Louis lazily. “Why, the tall one, of course. The other had no chance; you were taking up too much of his time. My friend had the knife in his waistbelt, I suppose; I never saw him draw it. But, if it is any satisfaction to you, I think you knocked him down yourself afterwards. In fact you must have done, for I certainly didn’t; I was lying on top of their horrible dirty plates.”
“He was behind me, was he not?”
“I don’t know,” said the Vicomte. “Are you going to write an account of this dastardly outrage for the newspapers? because, as an aristocrat, you will not get any sympathy.”
“I am sure he was behind me,” pursued Gilbert. “He was behind me, but you called out to me to turn, and then he stabbed you.”