“You never joined!” repeated Saint-Ermay in amazement. “I don’t understand you!”
“It is impossible,” said the Marquis calmly, “to join a plot of the very existence of which you are ignorant. Your letter was absolutely the first intimation that I received of it.”
None, surely, but the most exalted natures are proof against the joy of producing a sensation. And a sensation Château-Foix had certainly produced, for his cousin sat staring blankly at him like a man stunned. Gilbert began to see his goal in view, for surely his proof of treachery was overwhelming. Unfortunately the Vicomte rallied very quickly from his consternation, profound though it had undoubtedly been.
“There must be some mistake,” he said slowly, and with an unusual degree of stolidity. “I am certain I saw your name.”
“Oh,” retorted the Marquis with a laugh, “I have no doubt that my name was there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the plot is not genuine. The Gironde is entrapping you.”
The young Royalist gave a derisive laugh. “That is indeed jumping to conclusions, my dear cousin!” he exclaimed. “And, by the way, I feel sure that it is not your own idea. I seem to recognise in it the hand of M. des Graves.”
“It matters very little whose idea it is,” retorted Gilbert, considerably nettled. “There stands the fact, and you must look it in the face. My name, you say, is on the list of adherents, and I know nothing of the affair.”
“It was a mistake,” repeated Louis doggedly.