"He was alone with his aide-de-camp and in his coach," retorted St. Genis, "whilst that traitor Emery, you and your friend Mr. Clyffurde were on horseback--you gave him the slip easily enough."
"That's true, of course," said de Marmont simply. "Well, shall we go, my dear Clyffurde?"
He had accomplished the purpose of his jealousy even more effectually than he could have wished. He looked round and saw that everyone had thrown a casual glance of contempt upon Clyffurde and then turned away to murmur with scornful indifference: "I always mistrusted that man." Or: "The Comte ought never to have had the fellow in the house," while the words: "English spy!" and "Informer" were on every lip.
But Clyffurde had made no movement during this brief colloquy. He saw--just as de Marmont did--that everyone was listening more with indifference than with horror. He--the stranger--was of so little consequence after all!--a tradesman and an Englishman--what mattered what his political convictions were? De Marmont was an object of hatred, but he--Clyffurde--was only one of contempt.
He heard the muttered words: "English spy!" "Informer!" and others of still more overwhelming disdain. But he cared little what these people said. He knew that they would never trouble to hear any justification from himself--they would not worry their heads about him a moment longer once he had left the house in company with de Marmont.
He was not quite sure either whether de Marmont's spite had been directed against himself, personally, or that it was merely the outcome of his present humiliating position.
M. le Comte had not bestowed more than a glance upon him and that from under haughtily raised brows and across half the width of the room: but Crystal had looked up to him, and was still looking, and it was that look which had driven all the blood from Clyffurde's face and caused his lips to set closely as if with a sense of physical pain.
The insults which her father's guests were overtly murmuring, she had in her mind and her eyes were conveying them to him far more plainly than her lips could have done:
"English spy--traitor to friendship and to trust--liar, deceiver, hypocrite." That and more did her scornful glance imply. But she said nothing. He tried to plead with eyes as expressive as were her own, and she merely turned away from him, just as if he no longer existed. She drew her skirt closer round her and somehow with that gesture she seemed to sweep him entirely out of her existence.