“You are right, sir,” returned the man, taken a little aback. “It seems, sir, that you are better informed than I am.”
Mascarin did not notice the man’s surprise, but he was struck with the strange persistency with which this young man seemed to cross his plans, for he found that the acquaintance of Rose and the lover of Mademoiselle de Mussidan were one and the same person, and he had a presentiment that he would in some way prove a hindrance to his plans.
The astute Mascarin concentrated all his attention upon Andre.
The latter said something to Modeste, which caused that young woman to raise her hands to heaven, as though in alarm.
“But who is the other?” asked he,—“the fellow that looks like an Englishman?”
“Do you not know?” returned the lackey. “Why, that is M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
“What, the man who was to marry Sabine?”
“Certainly.”
Mascarin was not easily disconcerted, but this time a blasphemous oath burst from his lips.
“Do you mean,” said he, “that De Breulh and this painter are friends?”