“But you will write to him, sir?” said she, once more.
I laid my hand over what anatomists call the region of the heart, and tried to look like Charles Edward in the prints. Meanwhile my patience was beginning to fail me, and I felt that if the mystification were to last much longer, I should infallibly lose my presence of mind. Fortunately, the old lady was so full of her theme that she only asked to be let talk away without interruption, with many an allusion to the dear Count and the adored Duchess, and a fervent hope that I might be ultimately reconciled to them both,—a wish which I had tact enough to perceive required the most guarded reserve on my part.
“I know I am indiscreet, sir,” said she, at last; “but you must pardon one whose zeal outruns her reason.”
And I bowed grandly, as I might have done in extending mercy to some captive taken in battle.
“There is but one favor more, sir, I have to beg.”
“Speak it, madam. As the courtier remarked, if it be possible it is done, if impossible it shall be done.”
“Well, sir, it is that you will not leave us till you hear from—” She hesitated as if afraid to say the name, and then added, “the Rue St. Georges. Will you give me this pledge?”
Now, though this would have been, all things considered, an arrangement very like to have lasted my life, I could not help hesitating ere I assented, not to say that our dear friend of the Rue St Georges, whoever he was, might possibly not concur in all the delusions indispensable to my happiness. I therefore demurred,—that is, in legal acceptance, I deferred assent,—as though to say, “We'll see.”
“At all events, sir, you 'll accompany us to Como?”
“You have my pledge to that, madam.”