He had just caught sight of the young man on whom
de Jars had bestowed the title and name of Chevalier
de Moranges, and whose acquaintance the reader has
already made at the tavern in the rue Saint-Andre-des-Arts.
His appearance had as great an effect on the notary
as a thunderbolt. He stood motionless, trembling,
breathless; his knees ready to give way beneath him;
everything black before his eyes. However, he
soon pulled himself together, and succeeded in overcoming
the effects of his surprise and terror. He looked
once more through the hole in the partition, and became
so absorbed that no one in the whole world could have
got a word from him just then; the devil himself might
have shrieked into his ears unheeded, and a naked
sword suspended over his head would not have induced
him to change his place.
Before Mademoiselle de Guerchi had recovered from
her fright the commander spoke.
“As I am a gentleman, my beauty, if you were
the Abbess of Montmartre, you could not be more difficult
of access. I met a blackguard on the stairs
who tried to stop me, and whom I was obliged to thrash
soundly. Is what they told me on my return true?
Are you really doing penance, and do you intend to
take the veil?”
“Sir,” answered Angelique, with great
dignity, “whatever may be my plans, I have a
right to be surprised at your violence and at your
intrusion at such an hour.”
“Before we go any farther,” said de Jars,
twirling round on his heels, “allow me to present
to you my nephew, the Chevalier de Moranges.”
“Chevalier de Moranges!” muttered Quennebert,
on whose memory in that instant the name became indelibly
engraven.
“A young man,” continued the commander,
“who has come back with me from abroad.
Good style, as you see, charming appearance.
Now, you young innocent, lift up your great black
eyes and kiss madame’s hand; I allow it.”
“Monsieur le commandeur, leave my room; begone,
or I shall call——”
“Whom, then? Your lackeys? But I
have beaten the only one you keep, as I told you,
and it will be some time before he’ll be in a
condition to light me downstairs: ‘Begone,’
indeed! Is that the way you receive an old friend?
Pray be seated, chevalier.”
He approached Mademoiselle de Guerchi, and, despite
her resistance, seized hold of one of her hands, and
forcing her to sit down, seated himself beside her.
“That’s right, my girl,” said he;
“now let us talk sense. I understand that
before a stranger you consider yourself obliged to
appear astonished at my ways of going on. But
he knows all about us, and nothing he may see or hear
will surprise him. So a truce to prudery!
I came back yesterday, but I could not make out your
hiding-place till to-day. Now I’m not
going to ask you to tell me how you have gone on in
my absence. God and you alone know, and while
He will tell me nothing, you would only tell me fibs,
and I want to save you from that venial sin at least.
But here I am, in as good spirits as ever, more in
love than ever, and quite ready to resume my old habits.”
