"Oh—but you married into a French family of our station. Naturally, Madame la Marquise conformed more easily to our customs than—Deborah."
"And yet," said Henri, contemplating a panel, "yet the Countess has not been backward in comprehending the forms. Do you think so?"
Claude's face flushed quickly. "What do you mean?" he asked, playing nervously with his glass.
Henri's eyes fell from the picture and sought his cousin's face. His look was very kindly, but he made no reply to Claude's question.
"What do you mean? Do not hide from me what you know. We have been as brothers always. Nom de Dieu, Henri, speak!"
The Marquis perceived Claude's great agitation with some surprise. Emotion from Claude was not usual. "What shall I say?" he asked, quietly.
"The truth about Deborah. What do you hear about Deborah?"
Henri passed a hand over his forehead before he said, slowly and with weariness: "What one hears of—most women."
"Ah!" The exclamation was like a sharp cry. Henri had a glimpse of Claude's face grown very white, and then Claude's head sank forward till it rested on the table, encircled by both arms.
The Marquis sat and looked for a little on the bowed figure. Then he rose gently, moved to his cousin's side, and laid a hand upon the black shoulder. "Forgive me, Claude; forgive me. It was brutal. It is probably untrue. Gossip from the Œil-de-Bœuf! Who credits that? Claude—Claude—"