“And you could believe these false calumnies! Oh, no, no! tell me that there is no need for me to justify myself to”—
Then turning to Papa Ravinet, he said,—
“Suppose, we admit, for a moment, that she might have been in love, as you say, what would that prove?”
The cunning old dealer remained apparently unmoved for a time; but his small eyes were sparkling with malicious delight and satisfaction.
“Ah! you would not talk so, if you knew Sarah Brandon’s antecedents as well as I do. Ask my sister about her and Maxime de Brevan, and she will tell you why I look upon that apparently trifling circumstance as so very important.”
Mrs. Bertolle made a sign that she assented; and he, sure, henceforth, that his sagacity had not been at fault, continued,—
“Pardon me, M. Champcey, if I insist, and especially if I do so in Miss Henrietta’s presence; but our interest, I might almost say our safety, requires it. Maxime de Brevan is caught, to be sure; but he is only a vulgar criminal; and we have, as yet, neither Thomas Elgin, nor Mrs. Brian, who are far more formidable, nor, above all, Sarah Brandon, who is a thousand times more wicked, and more guilty, than all the rest. You will tell me that we have ninety-nine chances out of a hundred on our side; maybe! Only a single, slight mistake may lead us altogether astray; and then there is an end to all our hopes, and these rascals triumph after all!”
He was but too right. Daniel felt it; and hence he said, without hesitating any longer, but looking stealthily at Henrietta’s face,—
“Since that is so, I will not conceal from you that the Countess Sarah has written me a dozen letters of at least extraordinary nature.”
“You have kept them, I hope?”