“But the agent may be a rogue, and may administer it for himself,” said Monsieur Voltaire.
“Perhaps,” replied Gaston, nonchalantly, “but as my brother and I took different sides in 1733, we became estranged, and whether one dies or lives matters nothing 439 to the other. But the brook, Jacques, runs this way.”
He took the pen from Jacques Haret’s hand, and as clearly and steadily as ever I wrote for Count Saxe, Gaston Cheverny drew a line across the map with his right hand.
“I should not be surprised, Gaston, if you entirely recovered the use of your right hand and arm,” said Jacques Haret, fixing a penetrating look upon Gaston Cheverny.
Gaston threw down the pen with a look of absolute terror upon his face. His action had evidently been involuntary. I was stunned by it, and I saw a tremor pass through Francezka’s frame. Gaston, however, soon recovered himself.
“Yes,” he said, “perhaps the use of it may come back, but I shall never be able to write with this hand. It is, however, no great matter, because I have learned to write tolerably well with my left hand.”
“That’s not my opinion; worse, or more awkward writing I never saw,” was Jacques Haret’s answer, “and I believe you can write perfectly well with your right hand when you choose.”
From the first hour I had met Gaston Cheverny in the old prison of the Temple I had ever found him hot-headed to a fault. He was one of those men to whom an impertinence is the greatest of injuries. This remark of Jacques Haret, made in a taunting manner, was enough in the old days to have got a blow for him from the fist of Gaston Cheverny. No such thing now, however. Gaston only turned and flashed out for a moment upon Jacques Haret, who looked at him with a 440 singular smile, and then Gaston by an evident effort, controlled himself and made no reply. All this was quite without meaning except to those who knew Gaston Cheverny as Francezka and I did, and as Jacques Haret did. Neither Monsieur Voltaire nor Madame Villars saw anything in it, except the most ordinary conversation. Monsieur Voltaire was smiling and glancing toward the masks.
“Ah, ladies,” he cried, “if you would but disclose your charming selves we should have something more agreeable to talk about than the winding of a muddy brook, or the right of the Honsbrouck to kill game in the forest near-by.”
Madame Villars waved her hand for Monsieur Voltaire to proceed, which he did.