“I can assure you——”
De Puymandour burst into a loud laugh.
“I have heard a good deal of your little country walks, and all the pretty things that you used to say to each other.”
In vain did Norbert deny the whole thing, for his intended father-in-law would not believe him; and at last he got so annoyed that he refused to remain and dine with the Count, alleging anxiety for his father as an excuse. He returned home as soon as he possibly could, much agitated by what he had heard; and as he was walking rapidly on, he heard his name called by some one who was running after him: Norbert turned round, and found himself face to face with Montlouis.
“I have been here a week,” said the young man. “I am here with my patron, for I have one now. I am now with the Viscount de Mussidan, as his private secretary. M. Octave is not the most agreeable man in the world to get on with, as he gets into the most violent passions on very trivial occasions; but he has a good heart, after all, and I am very pleased with the position I have gained.”
“I am very glad to hear it, Montlouis, very much pleased indeed.”
“And you, Marquis, I hear, are to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour; I could scarcely credit the news.”
“And why, pray?”
“Because I remembered when we used to wait outside a certain garden wall, until we saw a certain door open discreetly.”
“But you must efface all this from your memory, Montlouis.”