“Only one, monsieur.”
“How old is she?”
“Nineteen, monsieur.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if she was beautiful, but I choked the question back. It was indiscreet—and after all what did it matter?
“They have been greatly worried at monsieur’s failure to appear,” he added.
I almost groaned aloud.
“M. de Benseval said he had been expecting me,” I murmured mechanically.
“Oh, yes; for a week almost. He had made arrangements for the fête, but of course it was postponed when monsieur did not arrive.”
“Postponed until when, Bertin?” I questioned.
“It is to take place to-morrow if monsieur approves,” he answered, and glanced at me quickly.