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Convinced of this, and seized with a laudable desire to emulate such distinguished examples, he had perched himself upon a trunk, where he still sat with his legs crossed. He now pretended to suppress a yawn, as he growled, "What! some more long phrases and another melodramatic display?" Absorbed in the memories she had invoked, Madame d'Argeles paid no heed to Wilkie's impertinence.
Madame d'Argeles considered this advice so sensible that half an hour later she went out for her daily drive in the Bois, little suspecting that M. Fortunat's spy, Victor Chupin, was dogging her carriage. It was most imprudent on her part to have gone to Wilkie's house on her return.
The viscount read the document, placed it in his pocket, and then said, as he took up his hat: "Very well. I will see you again on Monday." But M. Wilkie's doubts were beginning to return. "Monday, so be it!" said he; "but swear that you are not deceiving me." "What, do you still doubt me?" M. Wilkie reflected for a moment; and suddenly a brilliant inspiration darted through his brain.
Lyra, the frontispiece, after Wood, by T.A. Dean, is one of the loveliest creations of art; Vesuvius, after Turner, by Jeavons, is a most elaborate picture of that sublime spectacle of Nature; Echo, from Arnald's picture in the last exhibition, is finely executed by Goodall; and with still greater fidelity, Wilkie's Reading the News, is engraved by H. Robinson; but spirited and finished as it is, we must object to the quantity of smoke from the joint on the baker's board, and more especially from the pie; besides which, the bakehouse must be at some distance.
"There's something in what the Smith says," said Bandy; "but if there's to be nae growin' ony aulder i' the next world, there'll be some fowk 'ill hae a gey trauchle. There was Mysie Wilkie's bairn that de'ed doon there i' the Loan a fortnicht syne. It was a puir wammily-lookin' cratur, an' was only but aucht days auld when it took bruntkadis an' closed, juist in an 'oor or twa.
M. Wilkie had been compelled to attend to Pompier de Nanterre, that famous steeplechaser, of which he owned one-third part, and he had, moreover, to give orders to the jockey, whose lord and master he was to an equal extent. These were sacred duties, since Wilkie's share in a race-horse constituted his only claim to a footing in fashionable society.
Among them may be mentioned, with special praise, a magnificent small Rembrandt, a Paul Potter of exceeding minuteness and beauty, an Ostade, which reminds one of Wilkie's early performances, and a Dusart quite as good as Ostade.
So this man, this Isidore Fortunat, knew that she had a son. Perhaps he was even acquainted with him personally. In his anger he would very likely hasten to Wilkie's rooms and tell him everything. This thought filled the wretched woman's heart with despair. What! Had she not yet expiated her fault? Must she suffer again? For the first time a terrible doubt came over her.
He did not speak like a physician but like an examining magistrate, and his alarming deductions found their way even to M. Wilkie's dull brain. "Who could have committed the crime?" he asked. "It could only have been the person likely to profit by it; and only one person besides the count knew that the money was in the house, and had possession of the key of this escritoire." "And this person?"
Wilkie's house, setting her mind, during her transit on the frustration of the hopes of her daughter-in-law, against whom she in her heart registered a vow of vengeance.
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