Comforting myself as well as I could with the thought that time would remedy these defects, I turned away, opened the door and went down the stair. Beyond the vestibule was the saloon, a circular marble room, extremely elegant and well-furnished, and still beyond this the drawing-room, with four large paintings of the French victories of 1744 upon the walls. There was no one in either room, and I was examining the paintings, which no doubt pictured events in which the father of my host had taken part, and which appeared to me of splendid execution, when I heard the rustling of skirts behind me. I turned to perceive Mlle. de Chambray upon the threshold, and the fear of her ridicule was swept away in the burst of happiness at seeing her again.
“Oh, is it you, M. de Tavernay?” she said, hesitating and coloring divinely.
“Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,” I answered, trembling at this first time that she had ever addressed me.
“And alone?” she added, with a quick glance about the room. “It is strange that madame is not down.”
“She and M. le Comte doubtless have much to say to each other,” I hastened to explain, for I too thought it strange—though the rack itself could not have wrung the admission from me.
“Yes—no doubt,” she agreed, but she was plainly not convinced, and still hesitated on the threshold.
“It would be cruel to interrupt them,” I added. “Besides, I assure you that I am quite harmless.”
This time she permitted her glance to dwell upon me for an instant, and I caught the perfect contour of her face.
“I am not so sure of that,” she retorted, “unless your appearance is most deceptive. I think I would better join madame;” and she made a motion toward the door.
“If there is any oath I can swear, mademoiselle,” I protested, “prescribe it—I will take it gladly. I will agree to sit here in this corner, if you wish it.”