He eyed them all with an indifference which was tinctured with contempt and amusement.
“Well, Monsieur Carewe,” said Madame, coldly, “what have you to say?”
“A number of things, Madame,” he answered, in a tone which bordered the insolent; “only they would not be quite proper for you to hear.”
The Colonel's hand slid from his lip over his mouth; he shuffled his feet and stared at the bayonets and the grease spots on the table.
“Carewe,” said Fitzgerald, endeavoring to speak calmly, “you have broken your word to me as a gentleman and you have lied to me.”
The reply was an expressive monosyllable, “O!”
“Do you deny it?” demanded the Englishman.
“Deny what?” asked Maurice.
“The archbishop,” said Madame, “assumed the aggressive last night. To be aggressive one must possess strength. Monsieur, how much did he pay for those consols? Come, tell me; was he liberal? It is evident that you are not a man of business. I should have been willing to pay as much as a hundred thousand crowns. Come; acknowledge that you have made a bad stroke.” She bent her head to one side, and a derisive smile lifted the corners of her lips.
A dull red flooded the prisoner's cheeks. “I do not understand you.”