“Gaston?” he queried, carelessly. “I know who he is now. He must be the son of my father’s sister, whose husband lived at Havana. I suppose, upon his return to France, he must have taken his mother’s name, which is more sonorous than his father’s, that being, if I recollect aright, Moirot or Boirot.”
The banker laid down his memorandum-book, and, resuming his seat, went on:
“Boirot or Clameran,” said he, “I hope to have the pleasure of inviting you to dine with him before long. Of the four hundred thousand francs which I was ordered to collect for him, he only wishes to draw one hundred, and tells me to keep the rest on running account. I judge from this that he intends coming to Paris.”
“I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance.”
Clameran broached another topic, and seemed to have entirely forgotten the news told him by the banker.
Although apparently engrossed in the conversation of his neighbor at the table, he closely watched Mme. Fauvel and her niece.
He saw that they were unable to conceal their agitation, and stealthily exchanged significant looks.
Evidently the same terrible idea had crossed their minds.
Madeleine seemed more nervous and startled than her aunt. When M. Fauvel uttered Gaston’s name, she saw Raoul begin to draw back in his chair and glance in a frightened manner toward the window, like a detected thief looking for means of escape.
Raoul, less experienced than his uncle, was thoroughly discountenanced. He, the original talker, the lion of a dinner-party, never at a loss for some witty speech, was now perfectly dumb; he sat anxiously watching Louis.