Cayrol, Marechal, and Pierre looked at each other. The same thought came to their minds, dark and fearful. In a paroxysm of rage this fond mother, this energetic and passionate woman, would be capable of killing any one.
“You remember what I told you one day,” murmured Marechal, approaching Cayrol.
“I would prefer the hatred of ten men to that of such a woman,” answered Cayrol.
“Cayrol!” continued Madame Desvarennes, after a few moments of meditation, “the conduct of the business of which you spoke to us a little while ago depends solely on you, does it not?”
“On me alone.”
“Do it at once, then, cost me what it may. Has it been noised abroad?”
“No one has the slightest suspicion. I have not mentioned it to a living soul,” said the banker—“except to my wife,” added he with a frankness which drew a smile from Pierre. “But my wife and I are one.”
“What did she say?” asked Madame Desvarenes, looking straight at Cayrol.
“If I had been the person concerned,” he said, “she could not possibly have been more affected. She loves you so much, Madame, you and those belonging to you. She besought me to do all in my power to get the Prince out of this scrape. She had tears in her eyes: And, truly, if I did not feel bound to serve you from gratitude I would do it for her sake and to give her pleasure. I was touched, I can assure you. Really, she has a heart!”
Marechal exchanged a look with Madame Desvarennes, who advanced toward the banker, and shook him by the hand, saying: