"You do not like him?" she said, a note of challenge in her voice. "I have noticed that, Monsieur."
"I think he does not like me," I replied.
"He is less trustful than we are," she answered naïvely. "It is natural that he should be. He has seen more of the world."
That silenced me for a moment, but she did not seem to notice it. "I was looking for him a little while ago, and I could not find him," I said, after a pause.
"He has been into the village," she answered.
I longed to pursue the matter farther; but though she seemed to entertain no suspicion of me, I dared not run the risk. I tried her, instead, on another tack. "Mademoiselle de Cocheforêt does not seem very well to-day?" I said.
"No?" she answered carelessly. "Well, now you speak of it, I do not think she is. She is often anxious about--my husband."
She uttered the last two words with a little hesitation, and looked at me quickly when she had spoken them. We were sitting at the moment on a stone seat which had the wall of the house for a back; and, fortunately, I was toying with the branch of a creeping plant that hung over it, so that she could not see more than the side of my face. For I knew that it altered. Over my voice, however, I had more control, and I hastened to answer, "Yes, I suppose so," as innocently as possible.
"He is at Bosost--in Spain. You knew that, I conclude?" she said, with a certain sharpness. And she looked me in the face again very directly.
"Yes," I answered, beginning to tremble.