“I was sure of that,” said he, beginning to write. “Now, although I am not a notary, we will observe the forms. . . . ‘Je soussignée. . . .’ What is your baptismal name, Madame Vidal?”
Hastily Mme de Trélan put forward the least aristocratic sounding of her names. “Marie,” she answered.
“ ‘Marie,’ ” repeated the scribe, in somewhat lingering tones. “ ‘Marie.’ ‘I, the undersigned, Marie Vidal.’ Widow, of course?”
“Yes,” said Valentine rather faintly, for the question stabbed her. The Deputy looked up, and she had an impression that he was going to ask her how long she had been a widow, and that she would be mesmerised into answering that she did not know, that it was just what she was seeking to know. . . . But he did not; he settled to business instead—and was very business-like too. Valentine had to account for every hour of that morning, and as she really had no right in the Duc’s apartments she did not find it too easy. When it was finished, and she had signed, he thanked her, and looking at his watch left somewhat precipitately.
Valentine came back rather thoughtful from accompanying him to the door, which she always conceived it her duty to do. He was kind; she did not like deceiving him—though indeed she had no hand in this enterprise of the Comte de Brencourt’s any more than in Roland de Céligny’s. All she was doing was to hold her tongue about the Comte’s identity, and to wish him well out of the Temple. His sudden capture, however, had profoundly affected her own affairs, for he could not now be the bearer of her intended letter to the Marquis de Kersaint, nor—since he had left her that night without giving her his leader’s address—could she send it by any other means.
Unless, indeed, she thought, standing by the high barred window and looking out, she were to discover M. de Kersaint’s whereabouts by communication with Roland de Céligny, if he were still with his cousins. No, to approach Roland might be very inauspicious for him just at this juncture; moreover, she must hope, for his own sake, that he had left Paris by now. She must wait a little; and, after all, the initial shock was over. Gaston was dead, and details of the how and when of his death could not help him to life again. She hoped he had not died in poverty. She could not bear that thought. . . .
Nor could she bear, just now, the consciousness that M. Georges Camain was beginning to look upon her with an eye more beaming than that of an employer. Even his consideration, for which she had been grateful, was coming to displease her, for surely it exceeded what was due to a concierge. Not being born to that estate she could not feel certain about this, but she did know that a demeanour in the Deputy which even as Mme Vidal she disliked, as the Duc de Trélan’s widow she abhorred.
And she was troubled next day, when M. Camain appeared again, in a shirt of fine batiste fastened with a golden butterfly, bearing a bunch of roses in his hand. He laid them down on the table.
“I am happy to tell you, Madame Vidal, that the deposition was quite sufficient. You will not be molested in any way.”