‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly. ‘Yes, that is reasonable. ‘But what way, Emile?’ ‘Your family, mademoiselle, the family of your father. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl.
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