All
Rochelle was alive.
The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of
standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces
interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they
lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his
pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in
a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the
folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished
yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety
was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since
this past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to Brother
Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the
priest caught his and held them menacingly.
"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick,
too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this
handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such
humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they
are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried,
perfumeless flowers.
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