“I think, on the contrary, that it is a charming night,” replied the countess, “and those who are here will complain of but one thing, that of its too rapid flight.”
“I am not speaking,” said the duke with a smile, “of the persons who are here; the men run no other danger than that of falling in love with you, and the women of falling ill of jealousy at seeing you so lovely; I meant persons who were out in the streets of Rome.”
“Ah,” asked the countess, “who is out in the streets of Rome at this hour, unless it be to go to a ball?”
“Our friend, Albert de Morcerf, countess, whom I left in pursuit of his unknown about seven o’clock this evening,” said Franz, “and whom I have not seen since.”
“And don’t you know where he is?”
“Not at all.”
“Is he armed?”
“He is in masquerade.”
“You should not have allowed him to go,” said the duke to Franz; “you, who know Rome better than he does.”
“You might as well have tried to stop number three of the barberi, who gained the prize in the race today,” replied Franz; “and then moreover, what could happen to him?”