Out of this question and reply sprang a change in the chat⁠—chat it still remained, easy, desultory, familiar gossip. Hint, allusion, comment, went round the circle, but all so broken, so dependent on references to persons not named, or circumstances not defined, that listen as intently as I would⁠—and I did listen now with a fated interest⁠—I could make out no more than that some scheme was on foot, in which this ghostly Justine Marie⁠—dead or alive⁠—was concerned. This family-junta seemed grasping at her somehow, for some reason; there seemed question of a marriage, of a fortune⁠—for whom I could not quite make out⁠—perhaps for Victor Kint, perhaps for Josef Emanuel⁠—both were bachelors. Once I thought the hints and jests rained upon a young fair-haired foreigner of the party, whom they called Heinrich Mühler. Amidst all the badinage, Madame Walravens still obtruded from time to time, hoarse, cross-grained speeches; her impatience being diverted only by an implacable surveillance of Désirée, who could not stir but the old woman menaced her with her staff.