CHAPTER IV — THE MARQUIS’S CREED
Dormer Colville smiled doubtfully. He was too polite, it seemed, to be sceptical, and by his attitude expressed a readiness to be convinced as much from indifference as by reasoning.
“It is intolerable,” said the Marquis de Gemosac, “that a man of your understanding should be misled by a few romantic writers in the pay of the Orleans.”
“I am not misled, Marquis; I am ignorant,” laughed Colville. “It is not always the same thing.”
Monsieur de Gemosac threw away his cigarette and turned eagerly toward his companion.
“Listen,” he said. “I can convince you in a few words.”
And Colville leaned back against the weather-worn seat with the air of one prepared to give a post-prandial attention.
“Such a man was found as you yourself suggest. A boy was found who could not refuse to run that great risk, who could not betray himself by indiscreet speech—because he was dumb. In order to allay certain rumours which were going the round of Europe, the National Convention sent three of its members to visit the Dauphin in prison, and they themselves have left a record that he answered none of their questions and spoke no word to them. Why? Because he was dumb. He merely sat and looked at them solemnly, as the dumb look. It was not the Dauphin at all. He was hidden in the loft above. The visit of the Conventionals was not satisfactory. The rumours were not stilled by it. There is nothing so elusive or so vital as a rumour. Ah! you smile, my friend.”
“I always give a careful attention to rumours,” admitted Colville. “More careful than that which one accords to official announcements.”