"Lud, then," she said with affected merriment, "since `tis one
of your imaginary plots, you'd best go back to your own seat and leave
me enjoy the music."
And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the
cushion of the box. Selina Storace was singing the "Che faro" to an
audience that hung spellbound upon the prima donna's lips. Chauvelin
did not move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand,
the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.
"Well?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same
feigned unconcern.
"Well, citoyenne?" he rejoined placidly.
"About my brother?"
"I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you,
but first let me explain. . . . May I?"
The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite
still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve
was strained to hear what he had to say.
"The other day, citoyenne," he said, "I asked for your
help. . . . France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but
you gave me your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own
affairs and your own social duties have kept up apart.
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