He took a sweetmeat from a little gold box, in shape like a shell, that he carried, and put it between his lips.
“I could not believe,” said the lady, pouting and in an aggrieved voice, “that the Duc de Guise would condescend to jealousy.”
“Nor does he, madam,” answered the Duke. “It is his honour for which he is concerned.”
She flounced a shoulder on him.
“O, very well, monsieur! You know best what is worth your consideration. But, if I were a man, I should not, I think, consign my honour to the keeping of a despised wife. Will you be pleased to call back my maid?”
“You persist, then, in going?”
“Will you call Celestine?”
“Your mere presence there, and in such company, will be construed, you must understand, into a justification for all the calumnies and slanders which have pursued your name of late.”
“What matter, if you do not so construe it? You are not jealous, grâce à Dieu. And as to that great matter of your honour, I will put it for safe custody into the hands of Saint-Mesgrin, and you can ask him for an account of it when you please.”
“To be sure I shall, and very soon perhaps. You will go to the ball, then, madam?”