“No,” replied M. de Kersaint, smiling, “not Lucien. I have strong reasons to suspect another member of Artamène’s family, no less daring than himself, and, presumably, even more inspiring.—But enough that I know the name of this . . . person.—Go on, Roland; after all we will dispense with the meetings of the conspirators at La Vergne. Continue from your leaving that nest of plotters.”
He was in better spirits than he had been for days; and how should Roland guess with what pleasure he was looking forward to an interview after supper where, after all, he should let the penitent off rather easily? Thankfully escaping from the dangerous neighbourhood of Mlle de la Vergne the young man carried on his narrative up to his falling unconscious at the foot of the statue of Mercury in the park of Mirabel.
M. de Kersaint leant back in his chair. “We now come, I think, to the really romantic part of the story, do we not? Enter Mme Vidal, I believe.”
As Roland embarked on the entry of Mme Vidal into his recital the Abbé and M. de Brencourt became very silent. (But Roland noticed nothing; his audience was M. de Kersaint.)
Almost immediately, however, the latter interrupted him. “What was she like to look at, this good angel?” he enquired, laying down his fork. “She was not young, that I have gathered.”
Roland was rather at a loss. “I am afraid I am not very good at description, sir. But M. le Comte or M. l’Abbé”—he turned towards them—“surely you have heard all about her appearance from them.”
“No, indeed I have not,” replied the Marquis. “Rather remarkably, they neither of them seem able to describe her.”
“Let us have your attempt, then, Roland,” said the Abbé. A vista of blest possibilities was opening out before him. The same thing was happening to the Comte de Brencourt . . . only the possibilities were not blest.
Roland tried, but possibly through the hostile influence of the gentleman at the bottom of the table he failed to achieve anything recognisable.
“ ‘Tall, fair hair going grey, blue-grey eyes’—that does not advance us much,” observed M. de Kersaint with truth. “It is like the passport descriptions, ‘bouche moyenne,’ and the rest. Never mind Mme Vidal’s appearance, then, Roland. But since you of the three had the most intimate acquaintance with her, tell us, at least, what impression her personality made on you. For though M. le Comte does not seem to find the presence at Mirabel of a concierge with Royalist sympathies extraordinary, I must say that I do.”