La Roque, following, paused an instant to whisper in the ear of the crestfallen coxcomb:
“Mum, Charles—mum for your life! Mamselle Fanchette was it?—and in her Highness’s own suite It would never do to reveal the source, would it? But trust to my silence.”
La Coque, grinning savagely, struck his right hand softly into the palm of his left.
“A better man?” he muttered. “We’ll see. Let him conquer where he will, then. Only, if signs are reported true, the victory will not be exactly as desired.”
But from that moment his jealousy of the rival singer developed into a positive hatred.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DECOY
Tiretta one morning was traversing an inner corridor of the palace on his way to the gardens, when, passing by a private door which gave egress from the Infanta’s apartments, he almost ran against a young woman who at that moment issued from the opening. The lady effected a quite natural little scream and start, notwithstanding the fact that her eyes had been, but the instant before, watching through the door-slit the young gentleman’s approach. He apologised becomingly, with many regrets for the alarm he had occasioned, and was proceeding on his way, when an exclamation from the girl arrested him. She had pressed a faultless little hand to that region in her dainty bodice under which her heart was presumably lodged, and, with her eyes half closed, appeared to be swaying slightly. He returned at once, and, with an aspect of real concern, offered his support.
Mademoiselle Becquet resisted, though faintly, the proffered assistance. There was, after all, something of the moral hors-d’œuvre, of the appetisingly unexpected, about this early capture of her slim waist by a shapely masculine arm. Finally she turned her head away, and, with a sigh, yielded herself to the embrace just as it appeared about to be withdrawn.
“You are better?” said Tiretta anxiously.
She gulped, still panting a little.