A celle qu’on adore,
Et l’on revient toujours
A ses premières a ...”
Suddenly the accompanist ceased playing amidst a great uproar. Monsieur Germaine was chasing the Duchess who was running off with his rings. She fled into the monumental fireplace, where on the Angevin slate were engraven the loves of the nymphs and the metamorphoses of the gods. Then, pointing to a little pocket in her corsage she said:
“Here are your rings, my old Germaine. Come and fetch them. Look here! Here’s a pair of Louis XIII tongs! You can use them!”
And she jangled an enormous pair of tongs under the musician’s nose. René Chartier, savagely rolling his eyes, threw down his score, saying that he returned his part.
“I don’t believe the Luzancourts are coming either,” said the Baronne, with a sigh.
“All is not lost. I have an idea,” said the little Baron. “One must know how to make a sacrifice when it’s useful. Say nothing to Lacrisse!”
“Nothing to Lacrisse?”
“Nothing that matters. Leave it to me.”