Once admitting this suspicion into his heart, he then became indignant at the contemptuous manner in which she had spoken of this man, seeing in her language nothing but the most perfidious dissimulation.
Then, Reine was doubly culpable in his eyes. Why did she not frankly reject his hand, instead of keeping him in doubtful hope? Accepting this false theory, Honorât de Berrol found only too many reasons to induce him to ponder the caprices which he had observed in the conduct of Reine for some time. He even went so far as to imagine that the Bohemian was an emissary of M. de Signerol.
The recent agitation of his betrothed at the time he entered her drawing-room confirmed him in this absurd opinion. Not being able to hide this impression, he said to her, suddenly:
“Confess, mademoiselle, that it is at least rather strange that you should receive a vagabond Bohemian in your apartment; it seems to me that if he had only come to sing, you would not have been so embarrassed, so excited when I entered here.”
Honorât, in his anger, made this remark at random, and as soon as the words were uttered, felt ashamed of them. But what was his astonishment, his vexation, his distress, to see Reine blush and cast down her eyes without saying a word.
She was thinking of the portrait of the unknown hero, and the adventure connected with him; she was ignorant of Honorât’s allusion.
The embarrassment of the young girl confirmed the chevalier in his suspicions, and he exclaimed, with bitterness:
“Ah, Reine, never could I have believed you capable of forgetting yourself so far as to compromise your dearest interests by trusting them to such a contemptible creature!”
“What do you mean, Honorât? I do not understand you. This is the first time I have ever heard you utter such words.”
“It is the first time that I have had the assurance that I was your plaything!” cried he, unable to restrain his anger.