“I think he would have done so,” said the Countess, “if it had not been for a previous love affair.”
“Oh, it was not that,” cried Bertha. “He knew me long before he became acquainted with his present wife; but it may have been so after all, for I was only sixteen.”
If Clarence Glynne had been lukewarm in his love-making, Bertha soon found that Count Napier Mont d’Oro was the exact reverse. On his part, at least, it was a case of love at first sight. He declared to his friend, the Marquis Caussade, that for the first time in his life he had an attack of la grande passion. He tried in every way to make himself agreeable to Bertha.
“Will you go driving with me?” he asked, one morning. “Paris never looked more beautiful than it will to-day. The environs are even more attractive than the city itself.”
“I will ask the Countess,” said Bertha.
“And so my son wishes you to go driving with him, does he?” was the Countess’s reply to Bertha’s question. “I have no right to command you, but my advice is to refuse. Some people have told me that my son is a very bad young man. I am not personally cognisant of his misdoings, nor do I wish to be, but I do not think it best for you to become too well acquainted with him.”
“I shall certainly do as you say,” replied Bertha.
All of the Count’s attempts to make Bertha his companion were flat failures and he decided to adopt another course. A new opera was about to be given. The tickets were held at extravagant figures, but the Count secured a box.
“Oh, you are musical!” he exclaimed, one day as he entered the drawing-room and found Bertha seated at the piano.
“I play a little for my own amusement,” said she.