The chilling smile which passed over the count's face was sinister. "I
said she poisoned herself, advisedly."
"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.
"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you both
were on the way to Spain." D'Herouville stamped his foot impatiently.
"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.
"Certainly."
"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We are
bound in that direction."
"You?" taken aback like a ship's sail.
"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "since
you yourself are going that way?"
"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet's
form. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again,
then." And he left them.
"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he will
love you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himself
to cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has
forced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seeming
impatience, D'Herouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake.
Take care.
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