“That is a sensible man,” thought M. Folgat.
Then he added aloud,—
“Now we are alone, my dear Anthony, you can speak frankly. Did M. de Boiscoran keep a mistress?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he ever have one?”
“Never. They will tell you, perhaps, that once upon a time he was rather pleased with a great, big red-haired woman, the daughter of a miller in the neighborhood, and that the gypsy of a woman came more frequently to the chateau than was needful,—now on one pretext, and now on another. But that was mere childishness. Besides, that was five years ago, and the woman has been married these three years to a basket-maker at Marennes.”
“You are quite sure of what you say?”
“As sure as I am of myself. And you would be as sure of it yourself, if you knew the country as I know it, and the abominable tongues the people have. There is no concealing any thing from them. I defy a man to talk three times to a woman without their finding it out, and making a story of it. I say nothing of Paris”—
M. Folgat listened attentively. He asked,—
“Ah! was there any thing of the kind in Paris?”