“I think so, monsieur. You probably intend me to hear the conversation you are going to have with M. de Valorsay.”
“Exactly. I shall leave the door open, and you can listen.”
This word, “listen,” was uttered without bitterness, or even reproach; and yet Pascal could not help blushing and hanging his head. “I wish to prove to you that your suspicions are without foundation,” pursued the baron. “Rest assured that I shall prove this conclusively. I will conduct the conversation in the form of a cross-examination, and after the marquis’s departure, you will be obliged to confess that you were wrong.”
“Or you, that I am right?”
“So be it. Any one is liable to be mistaken, and I am not obstinate.”
He was about to leave the room, when Pascal detained him. “I scarcely know how to testify my gratitude even now, monsieur, and yet—if I dared—if I did not fear to abuse your kindness, I should ask one more favor.”
“Speak, Monsieur Ferailleur.”
“It is this, I do not know the Marquis de Valorsay; and if, instead of leaving the door wide open, you would partially close it, I should hear as distinctly, and I could also see him.”
“Agreed,” replied the baron. And, opening the door, he passed into the dining-room, with his right hand cordially extended, and saying, in his most genial tones: “Excuse me, my dear friend, for keeping you waiting. I received your letter this morning, and I was expecting you, but some unexpected business required my attention just now. Are you quite well?”
As the baron entered the room, the marquis had stepped quickly forward to meet him. Either he was inspired with fresh hope, or else he had wonderful powers of self-control, for never had he looked more calm—never had his face evinced haughtier indifference, more complete satisfaction with himself, and greater contempt for others. He was dressed with even more than usual care, and in perfect taste as well; moreover, his valet had surpassed himself in dressing his hair—for one would have sworn that his locks were still luxuriant. If he experienced any secret anxiety, it only showed itself in a slightly increased stiffness of his right leg—the limb broken in hunting. “I ought rather to inquire concerning your own health,” he remarked. “You seem greatly disturbed; your cravat is untied.” And, pointing to the broken china scattered about the floor, he added: “On seeing this, I asked myself if an accident had not happened.”