As the doctor spoke, he kept his eyes riveted on the Countess, but her face was impassable.

“Is that all?” asked she.

Dr. Hortebise paused a few moments before he replied, and then answered slowly,—­

“A man came to me yesterday, and asserts that you can tell me what has become of George de Croisenois.”

A man could not have displayed the nerve evinced by this frail and tender woman, for however callous he may be, some feature will betray the torture he is enduring; but a woman can often turn a smiling face upon the person who is racking her very soul.  At the mere name of Montlouis the Count had staggered, as though crushed down by a blow from a sledge hammer; but at this accusation of Hortebise the Countess burst into a peal of laughter, apparently perfectly frank and natural, which utterly prevented her from replying.

“My dear doctor,” said she at length, as soon as she could manage to speak, “your tale is highly sensational and amusing, but I really think that you ought to consult a clairvoyant, and not a matter-of-fact person like me, about the fate of George de Croisenois.”

But the doctor, who was ready with his retort, and, not at all disconcerted by the cachinations of the Countess, heaved a deep sigh, as though a great load had been removed from his heart, and, with an air of extreme delight, exclaimed, “Thank Heaven! then I was deceived.”

He uttered these words with an affectation of such sincerity that the Countess fell into the trap.

“Come,” said she, with a winning smile, “tell me who it is that says I know so much.”

“Pooh! pooh!” returned Hortebise.  “What good would that do?  He has made a fool of me, and caused me to risk losing your good opinion.  Is not that enough?  To-morrow, when he comes to my house, my servants will refuse to admit him; but if I were to do as my inclinations lead me, I should hand him over to the police.”

“That would never do,” returned the Countess, “for that would change a mere nothing into a matter of importance.  Tell me the name of your mysterious informer.  Do I know him?”

“It is impossible that you could do so, madame, for he is far below you in the social grade.  You would learn nothing from his name.  He is a man I once helped, and is called Daddy Tantaine.”

“A mere nickname, of course.”

“He is miserably poor, a cynic, philosopher, but as sharp as a needle; and this last fact causes me great uneasiness, for at first I thought that he had been sent to me by some one far above him in position, but—­”

“But, doctor,” interposed the Countess, “you spoke to me of proofs, of threats, of certain mysterious persons.”

“I simply repeated Daddy Tantaine’s words.  The old idiot said to me, ’Madame de Mussidan knows all about the fate of the Marquis, and this is clearly proved by letters that she has received from him, as well as from the Duke de Champdoce.’”