As we were walking towards the chateau--
"Monsieur de Lesperon," said he in a curious tone, "do you know that
a rumour of your death is current in the province?"
"I had hoped that such a rumour might get abroad when I disappeared,"
I answered calmly.
"And you have taken no single step to contradict it?"
"Why should I, since in that rumour may be said to lie my safety?"
"Nevertheless, monsieur, voyons. Surely you might at least relieve
the anxieties the affliction, I might almost say - of those who are
mourning you."
"Ah!" said I. "And who may these be?"
He shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips in a curiously
deprecatory smile. With a sidelong glance at Mademoiselle--
"Do you need that I name Mademoiselle de Marsac?" he sneered.
I stood still, my wits busily working, my face impassive under his
scrutinizing glance. In a flash it came to me that this must be
the writer of some of the letters Lesperon had given me, the original
of the miniature I carried.
As I was silent, I grew suddenly conscious of another pair of eyes
observing me, Mademoiselle's. She remembered what I had said, she
may have remembered how I had cried out the wish that I had met her
earlier, and she may not have been slow to find an interpretation
for my words. I could have groaned in my rage at such a
misinterpretation. I could have taken the Chevalier round to the
other side of the chateau and killed him with the greatest relish
in the world.
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