It would have reached the ears of Bigot, as every
spray of gossip did, and set him thinking, too, more savagely than
he was yet doing, as to the causes and occasions of the murder of
Caroline.
All the way back to the Palace, Bigot had scarcely spoken a word to
Cadet. His mind was in a tumult of the wildest conjectures, and his
thoughts ran to and fro like hounds in a thick brake darting in
every direction to find the scent of the game they were in search
of. When they reached the Palace, Bigot, without speaking to any
one, passed through the anterooms to his own apartment, and threw
himself, dressed and booted as he was, upon a couch, where he lay
like a man stricken down by a mace from some unseen hand.
Cadet had coarser ways of relieving himself from the late unusual
strain upon his rough feelings. He went down to the billiard-room,
and joining recklessly in the game that was still kept up by De
Pean, Le Gardeur, and a number of wild associates, strove to drown
all recollections of the past night at Beaumanoir by drinking and
gambling with more than usual violence until far on in the day.
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