Monsieur Carleton has
told Madame that not once have they been inside its doors, or shown
themselves at any Monte Carlo restaurant. Oh, your Prince is a wild
gambler, aunt, and loses much money, which is a silly way of amusing
one's self, in my opinion. And that is why I say he is not so good as
you and Monsieur le Cure think him, you who are so innocent."
"I do not believe one word of your foolish gossip," was the only
satisfaction Nathalie got from Luciola. But when the girl had gone, the
little old woman was in such haste to retell the tale to the cure, that
she did not even throw a glance at Nathalie. If she had, she might have
seen the Storm-cloud brightening when, quite by accident, she was met by
Achille Gonzales within a few yards of the cure's door.
Old as she was, Luciola had an excellent memory for anything that
interested her, though she was capable of forgetting what was best
forgotten in a household, such as the breaking of a dish, or the reason
why the cat had been left out of doors all night in the rain. She
repeated what she had heard from her niece, almost word for word,
wandering a little sometimes from the straight path of the narrative
into side tracks, such as the anecdote of the artist who took as much
pains with Nathalie's portrait as with that of the great beauty, Miss
Grant, who was always gambling at the Casino, the place where wicked
people said that Prince Giovanni played. No exciting detail did Luciola
neglect.
The cure listened to the end, without interrupting, greatly to the
housekeeper's disappointment, as she had made her narrative piquant in
the hope of tempting her master to ask questions.
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