M. le Baron, coming up to his room about the same time and for the same purpose, was witness of a little stage comedy, which, being for all his bulk a light treader, he surprised. The actors were his valet Louis and an under-housemaid, the latter of whom was at the moment depositing a can of hot water in the washing basin. He saw the lithe, susceptible little Gascon steal from his task of laying ready his master’s dress clothes, saw him stalk his quarry like a cat, pounce, enfold the jimp waist, heard the startled squeal that followed, a smack like a hundred kisses, a spitting sacré chien! from the discomfited assailant, as he staggered back with a face of fury and a hand held to his ear, and, seeing, stood to await the upshot, a questioning smile upon his lips. Both parties realised his presence at the same instant, and checked the issue of hot words which was beginning to join between them. The girl, giving a defiant toss to her chin, hurried past Le Sage and out of the room; M. Louis Cabanis returned to his business with the expression of a robbed wild-cat.
Le Sage said nothing until he was being presently helped on with his coat, and then suddenly challenging the valet, eye to eye, he nodded, and congratulated him:—
“That is better, my friend. It is not logical, you know, for the injurer to nurse the grievance.”
The Gascon looked at his master gravely.
“Will you tell me who is the injurer, Monsieur?”
“Surely,” answered Le Sage, “it cannot be she, in these first few hours of your acquaintance?”
“But if she had appeared to encourage me, Monsieur?”
The Baron laughed.
“The only appearance to be trusted in a pretty woman, Louis, is her prettiness.”
“Monsieur, is her ravishing loveliness.”