His eyes met mine as I looked round, and he smiled. “I should not have thought, Gaston,” he said, “that a man with so seared a conscience could have slept thus soundly.”
“I have not slept soundly,” I grumbled, recalling my dream.
“Pardieu! you have slept long, at least.”
“Out of self-protection; so that I might not hear the name of Geneviève de Canaples. 'T is a sweet name, but you render it monotonous.”
He laughed good-humouredly.
“Have you never loved, Gaston?”
“Often.”
“Ah—but I mean did you never conceive a great passion?”
“Hundreds, boy.”
“But never such a one as mine!”