“But surely, my dear child, Jacques told you—you—something more precise?”
“No.”
“You did not ask him even what those improbable facts were?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Well?”
“He said that I was the very last person who could be told.”
“That man ought to be burnt over a slow fire,” said M. de Chandore to himself. Then he added in a louder voice,—
“And you do not think all this very strange, very extraordinary?”
“It seems to me horrible!”
“I understand. But what do you think of Jacques?”