“M. le Comte is not with me,” she answered, stressing the title.
“Not with you?” He looked up suddenly, and directed upon her a glance in which suspicion seemed to blend with derision. “Where is he?”
“He is not in Paris, monsieur.
“Ah! Is he at Coblenz, do you think?”
Madame felt herself turning cold. There was something ominous in all this. To what end had the sections informed themselves so thoroughly of the comings and goings of their inhabitants? What was preparing? She had a sense of being trapped, of being taken in a net that had been cast unseen.
“I do not know, monsieur,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“Of course not.” He seemed to sneer. “No matter. And you wish to leave Paris also? Where do you desire to go?”
“To Meudon.”
“Your business there?”
The blood leapt to her face. His insolence was unbearable to a woman who in all her life had never known anything but the utmost deference from inferiors and equals alike. Nevertheless, realizing that she was face to face with forces entirely new, she controlled herself, stifled her resentment, and answered steadily.