“Most certainly not.”
She looked at him with an interest which, undisguised as it was, held something more concealed behind it.
“Have you seen much of him lately?—No, I know that you have not. Do you know that he fought the Comte de Bercy the morning after you came to Paris?”
“Yes,” said Gilbert, wondering whither this was tending, “I do know it.”
“But do you know why?”
“No.”
“You are a singular person, M. de Château-Foix,” said his hostess slowly. “If you will take my advice—but of course you will not—do not try to find out!” She turned away again and said, after a moment’s pause: “And now, if I cannot help you, what will you do?”
“Ah, no, Madame,” returned Gilbert, shaking his head with the glimmer of a smile. “If you will not help me, I dare not reveal to you such poor resources as I may have, independent of your aid.”
“In other words, I must be ally or enemy? You have no liking for half-measures, I see, Monsieur le Marquis. . . . Well, no more have I. And I am convinced, from what I have already seen, that I prefer you when you smile to when you frown at me. So . . . let us be allies. Will that satisfy you?”
“Madame——” began Gilbert, scarcely daring to believe her words, accompanied by that brilliant and half-mocking smile.