Gonzague’s voice was perfectly indifferent when he replied: "Everything that concerns you interests me. Tell me; was this other Gabrielle a Spaniard like you?"
Flora shook her head. "Oh no. She was French."
"Was she, too, an orphan?" Gonzague asked.
"Yes," said Flora; "but she had a guardian who loved her like a father."
The gypsy girl could not guess what raging passions were masked by the changeless serenity of Gonzague’s face. "Who was that?" he asked, as he might have asked the name of some dog or some cat.
And he got the answer he expected from the girl: "A young French soldier."
Perhaps, again, Gonzague’s voice was keener with his next question: "Whose name was—"
In this case Flora, suddenly recalling her conversation with Gabrielle on the previous day, became as suddenly cautious. "I have forgotten his name," she said, and looked as if nothing could rekindle her memory.
Gonzague affected to be busy with some of the papers that lay before him, and then, at a venture, and as if with no particular purpose in his thoughts, he said: "I wish I could get this Gabrielle to be your companion, child."
Flora clapped her hands, and forgot her caution in her joy at the prospect. "Well, that might be done. I will tell you a secret. Gabrielle and her guardian are in Paris."