“This, Clotilde,—I want to know if I dare venture to intrust to you a secret which involves the honor of two persons, and, perhaps, the lives of more.”
“Thank you, Gontran,” answered she calmly. “You have formed a correct judgment of me.”
But here Andre felt that he must interpose, and, taking a step forward, said, “Have you the right to speak?”
“My dear Andre,” said De Breulh, “this is a matter in which my honor is as much concerned as yours. Will you not trust me?” Then turning to the Viscountess, he added, “Tell us all you heard.”
“It is only something I heard from Modeste. You had hardly left the house, when the Baron de Clinchain made his appearance.”
“An eccentric old fellow, a friend of the Count de Mussidan’s. I know him.”
“Just so; well, they had a stormy interview, and at the end of it, the Baron was taken ill, and it was with difficulty that he regained his carriage.”
“That seems curious.”
“Wait a bit. After that Octave and his wife had a terrible scene together, and Modeste thinks that her mistress must have heard something, for the Count’s voice rang through the house like thunder.”
Every word that the Viscountess uttered strengthened De Breulh’s suspicions. “There is something mysterious in all this, Clotilde,” said he, “as you will say when you know the whole truth,” and, without omitting a single detail, he related the whole of Sabine and Andre’s love story.