Monsieur Bourdon laughed as he acknowledged the compliment, with an air that was evidently intended to be fascinating.
“Y-a-a-se,” he said, “we have been to Vindsor. It is very naice.”
Launcelot Darrell frowned, and looked angrily at his companion.
“Yes, Bourdon wanted to have a look at the state apartments,” he said; “he wanted to compare them with those interminable galleries at Versailles, I suppose, to the disparagement of our national glory.”
“But the apartments are closed,” said Eleanor.
“Oh! of course,” answered Mr. Darrell, looking at her rather suspiciously, “they always are closed when you happen to want to see them. Just like everything else in this world of anomalies and paradoxes.”
“He has taken his friend to Windsor,” Eleanor thought; “had this visit any relation to his last visit? Did he go there to see Mr. Lawford’s clerk?”
She was helpless without Richard, and could not answer this question.
“I’ll write to him to-night,” she thought, “and ask him to come back to me directly.”
But in the next moment she was ashamed of herself for her selfishness. She might sacrifice her own life to her scheme of vengeance. The voice of her father crying to her from his unsanctified grave, seemed for ever urging her to do that; but she had no right to call upon others to make the same sacrifice.