“Why, so I would, perhaps,—if he were here,” replied M. de Brencourt, shutting his eyes.
His leader looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he said, “It is perhaps fortunate that he is not.—Well, did you collect any more chroniques scandaleuses at Mirabel?”
The colour returned to the Comte’s face under the tone.
“No. One item, however, may interest you—as a kinsman by marriage. Her portrait is no longer at Mirabel.”
“Whose portrait?”
“The late Duchesse’s.” His secret felt safer now behind that adjective.
A moment’s pause. “What had happened to it then?”
“When the mob broke in that day, the mob which she had to face alone—picture it, de Kersaint!—some ruffian with a pike dashed his weapon through it. No doubt he would have liked——”
“Who told you that—about the portrait?” interrupted the Marquis, setting down his glass. He had not drunk; and this time there was a stain on the cloth.
“Who told me?—The concierge,” replied M. de Brencourt after a second’s hesitation.