He was sitting, partially dressed, in an armchair by the open window, with a flowered shawl over his shoulders. Not far from him his hostess and nurse, her hands on her hips, stood regarding him.
“That is easy to say,” she remarked. “But there is a key to the door.”
“And a vine, I observe, outside the window,” retorted her captive, craning his neck to make sure. “Directly your back is turned I shall go down it. And since you have deprived me of the use of one arm I shall most probably break the other.”
“What use is it to bring your cousin? tell me that,” demanded Madame Geffroi stubbornly. “And what happened the last time that he was here? tell me that also!”
“That was two days ago,” returned the Vicomte, “and I was tired. It shall not happen again, I promise you. . . . Madame, do not be so stony-hearted!”
“What do you want to see him for?”
Louis looked at her for a moment quizzically. “I don’t want to see him at all,” he said. “It will merely mean making arrangements for leaving you, and you cannot think that I desire to make those, can you, Madame? But consider, this cousin of mine has an adoring mother who is anxiously awaiting him at this very moment—not to speak of a whole tenantry to whom he is a sort of deity. You would not have me set my own poor happiness, which undoubtedly consists in remaining where I am, against maternal affection and feudal feeling!”
Madame Geffroi sniffed. “Huh! And is there no one who expects you back with anxiety, my young man?”
Two patches of colour flared for an instant in Saint-Ermay’s pale cheeks as he responded: “Alas, no, Madame, nobody.—I am wrong; there is an old man who will be very glad to see me. But come now——”
“As if you were fit to think of going away,” grumbled his jailor. “You shall see your cousin to-morrow.”