And, straightway, Lupin, who was in a confidential vein, began to tell me the story of his marriage to Angélique de Sarzeau-Vendôme, Princesse de Bourbon-Condé, to-day Sister Marie-Auguste, a humble nun in the Visitation Convent....[G]
But, after the first few words, he stopped, as though his narrative had suddenly ceased to interest him, and he remained pensive.
“What’s the matter, Lupin?”
“The matter? Nothing.”
“Yes, yes.... There . . . now you’re smiling.... Is it Daubrecq’s secret receptacle, his glass eye, that’s making you laugh?”
“Not at all.”
“What then?”
“Nothing, I tell you . . . only a memory.”
“A pleasant memory?”
“Yes!... Yes, a delightful memory even. It was at night, off the Île de Ré, on the fishing-smack in which Clarisse and I were taking Gilbert away.... We were alone, the two of us, in the stern of the boat.... And I remember.... I talked.... I spoke words and more words.... I said all that I had on my heart.... And then . . . then came silence, a perturbing and disarming silence.”