“I beg your pardon, madame,” I said humbly.
“No; beg hers,” she corrected.
“I do,” I said; “though I am utterly in the dark as to the nature of my offense.”
“Come, Charlotte,” called madame. “Forgive him.”
“What!” cried M. le Comte, appearing upon the threshold. “Do you already stand in need of forgiveness, Tavernay?”
“It seems so,” I answered, somewhat miserably. “Certainly for my thick head and dull wits.”
At the words, Mlle. de Chambray ventured a glance at me, and I saw a smile scatter the clouds. She struggled to hold it back, to suppress it, but quite in vain.
“Come, you are forgiven,” cried our host; and it seemed to me that in his glance also there was a hidden meaning. “I knew she was not hard of heart. And now for dinner.”
“M. de Tavernay,” said madame, “to you I shall confide Charlotte—or should I put it the other way?”
“Either way pleases me immensely, madame,” I said, bowing.