“You asked to see me, Monsieur,” she said quietly. “I desire you will state your business.”
“You or your husband,” he answered. “It is all one to me. Thank my gallantry alone for this precedence. If you scorn it, send for him.”
She trembled, in spite of herself.
“Did he see me coming?” he continued. “I have reason to think so. He is shy of greeting me, no doubt; though, to be sure, we are quite old friends and confidants. It is not possible that you are his confederate?”
He saw her, poor helpless quarry, look towards the door; and he laughed out.
“Yes, summon assistance, if you want the truth blazoned. Many or one—it will not change my purpose.”
Then, in her fear, she became the serpent. Her eyes glittered; her lips parted in a conciliatory smile.
“Ah, monsieur!” she pleaded; “you rebuke me rightly for my cavalier reception of a guest. But there are memories—associations—cannot you understand it? that one would fain forget. Yet, if you were my husband’s friend—?”
“And yours, and yours, mistress,” he broke in violently. “Don’t overlook that. You owe one another to me—why should I conceal it? If I had not blown into flame a little spirit of jealousy in the bosom of a certain chère amie of—but you know his name—our admirable dear Prefect down yonder—”
She stopped him, flushing intolerably.