“Really,” said the Marquis, as this little passage of arms ended, “your Mme Vidal begins to intrigue me so much that I almost wish I had gone to Mirabel myself!”
“Ah, if only you had!” was drawn in a whisper from the Abbé.
M. de Kersaint heard, though he was not meant to, and raised his eyebrows. “Why, it was your representations which prevented me from going!” he exclaimed. “What is the matter, Monsieur de Brencourt?”
“Nothing,” replied the Comte, who had half risen from his seat. “For the moment I thought—it was nothing.”
“You hear that testimony, Monsieur le Comte?” said the Abbé, turning to him with a sudden air of combat. “You should be pleased with me—M. le Marquis acknowledges that it was my wise counsels which prevailed on him not to go in person to Mirabel!”
“And why the deuce do you suppose I should be pleased at that?” demanded the goaded gentleman. “M. de Kersaint was welcome to go to Mirabel if he wished, for all it mattered to me!”
(“How very rude he is!” thought Roland, displeased.)
“You would not, surely, have had our leader run into such danger?”
“Well, I had to run into it!” retorted the Comte.
“Yes—and succumbed!” returned the priest with such a world of meaning in his voice that the Comte changed colour.