The astute Mascarin concentrated all his attention upon Andre.
The latter said something to Modeste, which caused that young woman to
raise her hands to heaven, as though in alarm.
"But who is the other?" asked he,--"the fellow that looks like an
Englishman?"
"Do you not know?" returned the lackey. "Why, that is M. de
Breulh-Faverlay."
"What, the man who was to marry Sabine?"
"Certainly."
Mascarin was not easily disconcerted, but this time a blasphemous oath
burst from his lips.
"Do you mean," said he, "that De Breulh and this painter are friends?"
"That is more than I can tell. You seem to want to know a lot," answered
Florestan, sulkily.
Modeste had now left the young men, who walked arm in arm in the
direction of the Avenue de l'Imperatrice.
"M. de Breulh takes his dismissal easily enough," observed Mascarin.
"He was not dismissed; it was he that wrote and broke off the
engagement."
This time Mascarin contrived to conceal the terrible blow that this
information caused to him, and even made some jesting remark as he took
leave of Florestan; but he was in truth completely staggered, for after
thoroughly believing that the game was won, he saw that, though perhaps
not lost, his victory was postponed for an indefinite period.
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