“Precisely; I was sure of it,” said Morcerf.
“Sure of what?”
“That the owner of the horse was Lord Ruthven himself.”
“What Lord Ruthven do you mean?”
“Why, our Lord Ruthven—the Vampire of the Salle Argentina!”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed the countess; “is he here in Paris?”
“To be sure,—why not?”
“And you visit him?—meet him at your own house and elsewhere?”
“I assure you he is my most intimate friend, and M. de Château-Renaud has also the honor of his acquaintance.”
“But why are you so sure of his being the winner of the Jockey Club prize?”
“Was not the winning horse entered by the name of Vampa?”
“What of that?”
“Why, do you not recollect the name of the celebrated bandit by whom I was made prisoner?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And from whose hands the count extricated me in so wonderful a manner?”
“To be sure, I remember it all now.”
“He called himself Vampa. You see, it’s evident where the count got the name.”
“But what could have been his motive for sending the cup to me?”
“In the first place, because I had spoken much of you to him, as you may believe; and in the second, because he delighted to see a countrywoman take so lively an interest in his success.”
“I trust and hope you never repeated to the count all the foolish remarks we used to make about him?”
“I should not like to affirm upon oath that I have not. Besides, his presenting you the cup under the name of Lord Ruthven——”