But he was wrong, for she descried the novel screen of the old dress which floated round the man's head as a kind of turban. She pointed out this odd curtain to her maid. Nicole stopped and pointed with the comb to the object to ask whether that were the reason for her mistress' amusement.
Without his suspecting it, this had a fourth spectator.
He suddenly felt a hasty hand snatch Madame Rousseau's dress from his brow, and he fell back thunderstricken at recognizing the master.
"What the deuse are you up to?" queried the philosopher, with a frowning brow and a sour grin as he examined the gown.
"Nothing," stammered the other, trying to divert the intruder's sight from the window.
"Then why hide up in this dress?"
"The sun was too bright for me."
"The sun is at the back of us, and I think it is you who are too bright for me. You have very weak eyes, young man."
Rousseau walked straight up to the window. By a very natural feeling to be a veil to his beauty, Gilbert, who had shrunk away, now rushed in between.
"Bless me, the rear house is lived in now!" The tone froze the blood in Gilbert's veins, and he could not get out a word. "And by people who know my house, for they are pointing up to it," added the suspicious author.