“You know that’s not what I mean. If you would give more time to music and less to making love to people who do not appreciate it, it would be better for yourself and for me. What did you mean by insulting my guest?”
“Is it an insult,” he asked, “to ask a young lady to become a Countess?”
The Countess paused. “Perhaps not,” she said, “if you had any right to ask her, but you have not. What would you say if I told Vivienne?”
“I should say,” said the Count, “what would, no doubt, seem to be very impolite.”
“You would tell me to mind my own business, I presume,” said the Countess; “it is not an uncommon remark with you. Well, I am going to mind it. This is my house and I have only allowed you to remain here on sufferance. Either you or I must go.” She thought for a moment before she spoke again. “Yes, we will go. Bertha has never seen the world and I will give her an opportunity. You may stay in Paris. I shall not tell you where we are going, for, to borrow the words which you thought but did not speak, I do not consider it is any of your affair. If you discover where we are, and follow us, and speak a word of love to my guest, or even hint at it, I will tell Pascal Batistelli.”
The Countess was as good as her word. On the second day her preparations were completed, and on the morning of the third she left Paris, without informing her son as to her destination.
The Count really felt his rejection severely. He had been attracted to Bertha and as far as it lay in him to feel affection for any one, he really loved her. Night after night of dissipation followed his rejection and the consequent departure of Bertha from Paris. It was nearly one o’clock when he returned home one morning. His latch-key gave him admission to the house, and he would have gone upstairs at once to his room if he had not noticed a long, thin ray of light coming from the library. He went on tiptoe to the door and listened. He heard a sound like that of a file upon metal. His first thought was that it was a burglar. He was unarmed, but he had a sturdy frame and a pair of stout fists. He kicked the door open violently, rushed into the room, and pounced upon a man who was on his knees before the safe, which contained the family papers and valuables. He caught the man by the collar and threw him violently upon his back.
“Ah, Jacques, it is you, is it? What the devil are you up to?”
When the Countess left Paris, only three servants were retained. These were Jacques, the coachman; Timothée, the butler, or major domo; and Francine, the cook, who was Timothée’s fiancée. It was but natural that Timothée should spend his evenings in the kitchen with Francine, and this fact, the Count quickly reasoned, was what had given Jacques his opportunity to rob the safe.
“Why don’t you speak, you rascal?” cried the Count. “Were you trying to rob the safe?”