Mme Tessier watched her as, alert and interested, she unpacked the basket. Now and again there would peep out, in this tragically fated lady, whom she worshipped and protected with equal fervour—this lady who for all her lifetime of authority was so wonderfully humble and contented—some trait of those older days when her lightest wish had been a command. Despite her extraordinary consideration for others, and those her inferiors, she did sometimes demand services without counting the cost, and accept devotion as a right. And Suzon loved her for it.
“This is excellent, ma fille,” said the Duchesse in a moment, setting out Suzon’s purchases on the table. “I think that as a reward I must tell you, after all, about this young man’s errand—a wild-goose chase if ever there was one. Did you ever hear, Suzon, from your grandfather, of a treasure hidden in Mirabel from the time of the Fronde?”
“Why, bless you, yes, Madame,” replied Suzon. “Grandpère used often to talk of it. There were supposed to be jewels too. But I never believed it myself.”
Valentine was taken aback at this unexpected reply. “You did know of it! It is extraordinary that I should be the last to hear of it, then.”
And in both their minds, as each guessed, was the unuttered question, Had the Duc known of it too? But for years now Mme Tessier had never mentioned M. de Trélan unless the Duchesse did so first.
“It is very strange,” went on Mirabel’s mistress reflectively. “And stranger still that the man who possesses a plan of the spot where this treasure is supposed to be hidden should be a Chouan leader calling himself—with what truth I cannot tell—a kinsman of . . . of the Duc’s.” A swift, tiny flush ran over her face. “I have never heard his name. I think it must be a false assertion.”
“And that is why the young man is here, then?” interrupted Suzon despite herself. “—sent by this Chouan to secure the treasure! He is a Royalist, therefore!—O, Madame——”
“Not sent, I gather,” corrected the Duchesse. “Yes, a Royalist, a collet noir.”
“A collet noir—one of those hotheads! And the guard—you say they shot him! Did they not search for him? Will they not search again? Really, Madame, I must say it, your imprudence . . .”
“The search, if you can call it so, is over,” said Mme de Trélan with composure, opening a pot of jelly. “It was very perfunctory last night, and little better this morning, when the sergeant and three men came. I of course knew nothing—may Heaven pardon me!”