"She wants me to hold my tongue and yet speak," answered Chaudoreille, rolling his eyes affrightedly.
"The name of my rival? Answer me, wretch."
"It's this way, signora—but I beg you let me tell you that by order—"
"The name of my rival, I tell you," resumed Julia, approaching Chaudoreille furiously. The little man, trembling in all his limbs, muttered,—
"Blanche, an orphan, a young girl whom the barber was caring for."
"The scoundrel! I should have known it."
"Blanche was to have been married today to a young man whom she loved and who adored her. The barber had given his consent. I don't know by what chance monsieur le marquis came to see the young girl, but he must have fallen in love with her and abducted her, for the night before last she disappeared, and I strongly suspect my friend Touquet of having aided monseigneur's plans. At all events, the little one is not at the Faubourg Saint-Antoine; I have been there and the marquis is not in Paris, since I come from his hotel, where they told me he was in England."
Chaudoreille told all this without taking breath, fearing that Julia would do him some ill if he did not hasten his story.
"This voyage to England is a falsehood," cried Julia.
"I thought so myself."