“There is but one man in France could make such a proposition!” said the manager, starting back, half in amazement, half in respect.
“And I am exactly that man,” rejoined the Maréchal. “There need never be secrets between men of sense. M. Duroset, the case is this: your beauty, whose manners and breeding I conjecture to be equal to her charms, must represent the character of the widowed Countess of Vaugirarde, whose sorrow for her late husband is all but inconsolable. The solitude of her retreat will, however, be disturbed by the accidental arrival of a stranger, who, accompanied by his friend, will demand the hospitality of the château. Grief has not usurped every faculty and devoir of the fair Countess, who consents the following morning to receive the respectful homage of the travellers, and even invites them, weary as they seem by travel, to stay another day.”
“I understand—I understand,” said Duroset, hastily interrupting this narrative, which the speaker poured forth with impetuous rapidity; “but there are several objections, and grave ones.”
“I’m certain of it,” rejoined the other; “and now to combat them. Here are a thousand louis; five hundred of which M. Duroset will keep—the remainder he will expend, as his taste and judgment may dictate, in the costume of the fair Countess.”
“But Mademoiselle Bellechasse?”
“Will accept of these diamonds, which will become her to perfection. She is not a blonde?”
“No; dark hair and eyes.”
“This suite of pearls, then, will form a most graceful addition to her toilette.”
“They are magnificent!” exclaimed the manager, who, with wondering eyes, turned from one jewel-case to the other; “they are splendid! Nay”—then he added, in a lower accent, and with a glance, as he spoke, of inveterate cunning—“nay, they are a Princely present.”
“Ah, M. Duroset, un homme d’esprit is always so easy to treat with! Might I dare to ask if Mademoiselle Bellechasse is here?—if I might be permitted to pay my respects?”