“It is now two months since we came to Blois: I, to pay my court to the wealthy Mademoiselle de Canaples; you, to watch over and protect me—nay, you need not interrupt me. Michelot has told me what St. Auban sought here, and the true motives of your journey to St. Sulpice. Never shall I be able to sufficiently prove my gratitude to you, my poor Gaston. But tell me, dear friend, you who from the outset saw how matters stood, why did you not inform St. Auban that he had no cause to hunt me down since I intended not to come between him and Yvonne?”
“Mon Dieu!” I exclaimed, “that little fair-haired coquette has—”
“Gaston,” he interrupted, “you go too fast. I love Geneviève de Canaples. I have loved her, I think, since the moment I beheld her in the inn at Choisy, and, what is more, she loves me.”
“So that—?” I asked with an ill-repressed sneer.
“We have plighted our troth, and with her father's sanction, or without it, she will do me the honour to become my wife.”
“Admirable!” I exclaimed. “And my Lord Cardinal?”
“May hang himself on his stole for aught I care.”
“Ah! Truly a dutiful expression for a nephew who has thwarted his uncle's plans!”
“My uncle's plans are like himself, cold and selfish in their ambition.”
“Andrea, Andrea! Whatever your uncle may be, to those of your blood, at least, he was never selfish.”