“I am not yet come so low that I need your advice,” she answered sourly.
“You may before the sun sets,” he answered, with his quiet smile. “The Marquis de Condillac and his wife are still at La Rochette, waiting until my business here is done that they may come home.”
“His wife?” she cried.
“His wife, madame. He has brought home a wife from Italy.”
“Then—then—Marius?” She said no more than that. Maybe she had no intention of muttering even so much of her thoughts aloud. But Garnache caught the trend of her mind, and he marvelled to see how strong a habit of thought can be. At once upon hearing of the Marquis’s marriage her mind had flown back to its wonted pondering of the possibilities of Marius’s wedding Valerie.
But Garnache dispelled such speculations.
“No, madame,” said he. “Marius looks elsewhere for a wife—unless mademoiselle of her own free will should elect to wed him—a thing unlikely.” Then, with a sudden change to sternness—“Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye is well, madame?” he asked.
She nodded her head, but made no answer in words. He turned to Fortunio.
“Go fetch her,” he bade the captain, and one of the men unlocked the door to let Fortunio out upon that errand.
The Parisian took a turn in the apartment, and came close to Tressan. He nodded to the Seneschal with a friendliness that turned him sick with fright.