Nevertheless, she was confounded at M. Costeclar’s attitude. According to her, and from what she thought she knew, he should have been petrified at the sight of M. de Tregars.
And he did not even seem to know him. He seemed shocked, annoyed at being interrupted, slightly surprised, but in no wise moved or frightened. Knitting his brows,
“What do you wish?” he inquired in his most impertinent tone.
M. de Tregars stepped forward. He was somewhat pale, but unnaturally calm, cool, and collected. Bowing to Mlle. Gilberte,
“If I have thus ventured to enter your apartment, mademoiselle,” he uttered gently, “it is because, as I was going by the door, I thought I recognized this gentleman’s carriage.”
And, with his finger over his shoulder, he was pointing to M. Costeclar.
“Now,” he went on, “I had reason to be somewhat astonished at this, after the positive orders I had given him never to set his feet, not only in this house, but in this part of the city. I wished to find out exactly. I came up: I heard—”
All this was said in a tone of such crushing contempt, that a slap on the face would have been less cruel. All the blood in M. Costeclar’s veins rushed to his face.
“You!” he interrupted insolently: “I do not know you.”
Imperturbable, M. de Tregars was drawing off his gloves.