"You in Paris—you!" he exclaimed.
"With your permission," said the Vicomtesse, smiling. "Or even, Monsieur, without it."
Armand, hat in hand, stared at her.
"Where have you been all this while?" he asked at last.
"In Italy," replied she. "And you?"
"Further than that," returned the young man rather meaningly, coming nearer to the carriage. He had now regained his composure, and looked at her to see if she understood. "I have—but may I not come and tell you about it?"
"Mon Dieu, is it so tragic as all that?" asked Madame de Vigerie with gravity. "But, my poor friend, I know all about it. You are in the most serious of all scrapes. Yes, I know all about it. Nevertheless, come and see me some day," She rearranged her furs; the coachman looked round for orders.
"When?" asked the Comte eagerly. "At the usual time—three?"
Madame de Vigerie shook her head. "Oh no, not now! I am at home on Tuesdays at eight.—Yes, to the Champs Elysées."
She drove off. So she did not care the snap of a finger ... unless she were dissembling very well. And she had relegated him to the hour of her salon, where, for the sake of a sight of her, he would have to endure all sorts of bores.