“It is him! It is indeed!” cried Godfrey d’Etigues flushing with anger. “It’s our man of the Château de Gueures! The young fellow who stole the branch of the candlestick! Of all the infernal impudence! What have you come for to-day? If it’s the hand of my daughter——”
Ralph laughed softly and said: “Upon my soul you don’t seem able to think of anything else, sir. My feelings for Mademoiselle Clarice are the same as ever; and in my heart I still cherish the same respectful hope. But the object of my visit to-day is no more matrimonial than it was at Gueures.”
“Then what the devil is your object?” stormed the Baron.
“That day at Gueures it was to lock you up in a cellar. To-day——”
Beaumagnan had to step forward hastily to prevent the Baron from throwing himself on this intruder.
“Stay where you are, Godfrey! Sit down!” he cried. “Let the young gentleman tell us what he has come for.”
He himself sat down at his desk. Ralph dropped on to a chair.
Before speaking he studied leisurely the faces of his opponents. He perceived that they had changed since their meeting at La Haie d’Etigues. The Baron in particular had aged. His cheeks had grown hollow and at moments his eyes had a hunted expression which impressed Ralph painfully. The fixed idea, the pangs of remorse can alone produce that feverish, restless air which he observed both in the Baron and in Beaumagnan. They could not keep their hands still.
Beaumagnan however kept control of himself. If he was haunted by the memory of Josephine’s death, it was at rarer intervals than the Baron. It had worn him less, had less thrown him off his balance. It was only by fits and starts and at critical moments that it unmanned him.
Ralph thought to himself: “If I’m going to bring this off, I must produce such a critical moment. One or other of us has got to give ground.”