“Are you proposing another of your jests, madame?”
She laughed outright. A wonderful assurance was hers, thought Monsieur de Garnache. “Mon Dieu! no, monsieur,” she cried. “If you will, you may see the lady herself.”
He took a turn in the apartment, idly, as does a man in thought.
“Very well,” said he, at last. “I do not say that it will alter my determination. But perhaps—yes, I should be glad of an opportunity of the honour of making Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye’s acquaintance. But no impersonations, I beg, madame!” He said it half-laughingly, taking his cue from her.
“You need have no fear of any.”
She walked to the door, opened it, and called “Gaston!” In answer came the page whom Garnache had found in the room when he was admitted.
“Desire Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye to come to us here at once,” she bade the boy, and closed the door.
Garnache had been all eyes for some furtive sign, some whispered word; but he had surprised neither.
His pacing had brought him to the opposite end of the board, where stood the cup of wine madame had poured for Marius. His own, Garnache had left untouched. As if abstractedly, he now took up the beaker, pledged madame with his glance, and drank. She watched him, and suddenly a suspicion darted through her mind—a suspicion that he suspected them.
Dieu! What a man was this! He took no chances. Madame reflected that this augured ill for the success of the last resource upon which, should all else fail, she was counting to keep mademoiselle at Condillac. It seemed incredible that one so wary and watchful should have committed the rashness of venturing alone into Condillac without taking his precautions to ensure his ability to retreat.