“And have you been to the wedding at Mirabel?” enquired Artamène mischievously.
The Abbé Chassin quickly turned on him with a frown, putting his finger to his lips. But he was too late; the words were out, and, though the culprit had moderated his voice, they had been heard. And Artamène, roused at once to interest and alertness by the priest’s gesture, was somehow aware of a sudden stiffening of M. de Kersaint’s whole figure, ere he said, turning round from the table, “What is this about . . . Mirabel?”
The Abbé seeming in no great haste to answer, it was M. de Brencourt who replied, “The old lady whom the Abbé has been visiting next door is, apparently, suffering from delusions about Mirabel—that château of the Duc de Trélan’s near Paris. That is what M. de la Vergne means.”
“This is interesting,” observed the Marquis de Kersaint, turning further round to look at the little priest, who had not advanced a step since Artamène’s jest. “And did you learn anything fresh about Mirabel, Abbé?”
“Yes, I did, Monsieur le Marquis,” answered the priest rather shortly.
“May we hear it?”
M. Chassin was silent, and seemed to be considering this request. Artamène saw his face, and it was oddly perturbed.
“We are not, I hope, inviting you to reveal the secrets of the confessional?”
“No.”
“Why may we not hear it, then?”