The marquis turned the conversation to his favourite subject. Had the baron, who doubtless was acquainted with matters of current interest, by means of the Gazette, at all occupied himself with animal magnetism?
With what? A pretty subject for gentlefolk! Rumour had already whispered that the young marquis's pursuits were uncanny. The baron glanced at the baroness, who looked unutterable things, while Angelique detected a shade of sadness flitting over the face of the marquise.
"God forbid!" cried the old lady, leaping into the breach, "that we should know aught of devil's sabbats."
Clovis laughed, amused. "It is so easy to denounce what we do not comprehend," he observed, demurely. "Some day, when you are howling with pain, we will drive over to Montbazon, and cure you by laying on of hands."
Gabrielle frowned. Such an ill-chosen expression, a parody on Holy Writ, or something like it! She began to perceive that it might not be so easy to vanquish Mesmer, and, seeing them as shocked as she was, felt rather anxious to be rid of her guests.
"I won't be cured by devils!" stoutly declared the baroness. "I'd rather grin and bear it."
"For my part, I care little to inquire into the means, provided that I am cured," civilly remarked Angelique.
Here was one ready for conversion! Clovis woke up, and drawing his chair closer, detailed with eager admiration the triumphs of the prophet, to which the baron listened with the polite sceptical smile that becomes one who is a noble--a superior person--and knows it. Gabrielle looked grave and apologetic. The ground was slippery, and the baroness, agile, despite her figure, again jumped into the breach.
"Yes. Just one more dish of tea, my sweetest marquise," she cried, "and then we must go home to Montbazon. When you come to see us, if you like to walk, you have only to cross the river in a boat, you know, and the distance by the bridle-path is nothing. But I would not wander alone if I were you, there are such sinister men about. Do you know--of course you don't--that you've a nice thorn in your own side that will soon prick you--he! he! That Jean Boulot of yours is a shocking character, one of the odious, deceitful, crawling kind, which is the worst of all!"
"Nothing of the sort, my dear!" interrupted the baron. "His opinions are regretable, but he is a rough, honest fellow who professes a humble fondness for the de Brèze family, which does him honour!"