“Pooh! Why not?”
“Why not?” He halted for a moment, then in a meandering tone—“You have read perchance in story-books,” he said, “of love being born from the first meeting of two pairs of eyes, as a spark is born of flint and steel, and you may have laughed at the conceit, as I have laughed at it. But laugh no more, Gaston; for I who stand before you am one who has experienced this thing which poets tell of, and which hitherto I have held in ridicule. I will not go to Blois because—because—enfin, because I intend to go where she goes.”
“Then, mon cher, you will go to Blois. You will go to Blois, if not as a dutiful nephew, resigned to obey his reverend uncle's wishes, at least because fate forces you to follow a pair of eyes that have—hum, what was it you said they did?”
“Do you say that she is going to Blois? How do you know?”
“Eh? How do I know? Oh, I heard her servant speaking with the hostler.”
“So much the better, then; for thus if his Eminence gets news of my whereabouts, the news will not awaken his ever-ready suspicions. Ciel! How beautiful she is! Noted you her eyes, her skin, and what hair, mon Dieu! Like threads of gold!”
“Like threads of gold?” I echoed. “You are dreaming, boy. Oh, St. Gris! I understand; you are speaking of the fair-haired chit that was with her.”
He eyed me in amazement.
“'T is you whose thoughts are wandering to that lanky, nose-in-the-air Madame who accompanied her.”
I began a laugh that I broke off suddenly as I realised that it was not Yvonne after all who had imprisoned his wits. The Cardinal's plans were, indeed, likely to miscarry if he persisted thus.