“You must know,” madame continued, “M. de Tavernay is subject to sudden seizures of the heart, and that Charlotte is the only one present who can work a cure.”
“Our friend is not the first to be so afflicted,” laughed M. le Comte, crossing to his wife’s side. “Luckily I also found the one person who could work a cure.”
“Nonsense!” protested Mlle. de Chambray, very red. “M. de Tavernay was really suffering acutely.”
“Well, so have I suffered acutely,” retorted her tormentor. “Did I not, madame?”
“Or pretended to,” rejoined madame. “With that disease it is often impossible to tell where reality leaves off and pretense begins; you men have made so close a study of the symptoms. But come, monsieur; the dinner waits.”
I confess that the arm I gave my partner was not so steady as I could have wished it; for my heart was torn between delight and despair—delight that she should be there beside me, despair at my own stupidity in understanding so little of all this; but I managed by some miracle to enter the dining-room without accident, to get her safely seated and to seat myself beside her.
I drew a deep breath of relief when I found myself in port.
“You have never been to Paris, M. de Tavernay?” asked a low voice at my elbow, and I looked up to find her eyes on mine.
“No, mademoiselle,” I stammered.
“Perhaps not even to Orléans?” and I saw again in their depths that glimmer of mischief.