“Did he? Ah, that is not improbable! He should have conducted himself differently, and prevailed on me to stay. However, I pardon him; he did his best to atone for it by dying at the right moment. Not but what I owe him something for his conduct even then.”
“Oh, Fabien!”
“It is true, then,” he said excitedly. “And M. Deshoulières is aware of my sentiments.”
Max turned round grave and quiet.
“It is unnecessary to repeat them in the presence of Mademoiselle Veuillot.”
“Parbleu, and why? They will be repeated before the world very shortly, let me assure you, if the will and certain explanations do not reach me.”
She looked inquiringly—again not at him, but at M. Deshoulières. This time he answered her: “Monsieur Roulleau’s absence has placed us in a difficulty. Until his return M. Saint-Martin has only my Word to rely upon.”
“A word which, unfortunately, is contradicted by facts.”
Whether he was provoked by M. Deshoulières’ calmness, or irritated by his disappointment, his tone was more insulting than it had been the preceding night. The girl’s eyes flashed.
“Are you doubting his word?”