Horatia said very little, only her eyes slowly filled with tears, and seeing this Armand went away to the mantelpiece behind her. He was enjoying his ingenuity less than he had expected.
"Then I cannot write to her, for you will not be seeing her either?" came his wife's voice after a moment.
"No, certainly I shall not be seeing her," replied the Comte, studying the Rector's coal-black profile, and wishing that this further sacrifice to truth were not involved in his plan. "It would be very serious for her if she became further suspect to the Government; it would be very serious for me also. Even my friend might lose his place if it were known that he had warned us. I daresay that it will only be for a time.... Of course I need not ask for your promise, Horatia, that you will not communicate with her in any way?"
She made no answer, and looking round Armand saw that she had her handkerchief to her eyes, though not a sound escaped her. He bit his lip, hesitated, then went and bent over her.
"My dear, I am so sorry," he said—and he was sorry. "See, I must go this evening and tell her—she does not know yet—and you would like to write just this once to her, would you not? and I will take the letter for you."
(2)
Some compensation for the discomfort of this little scene was undoubtedly afforded to its author by the reflection that the Vicomtesse would not be so easy to dupe. Conceivably, even, he might fail to persuade her of his good faith. The prospect of a battle of wits was exhilarating, if momentous.
But his star, good or evil, fought for Armand, putting into his pocket Horatia's depressed note to her friend—convincing in that she, at least, had no doubts—surrounding Madame de Vigerie that evening with an unusually large circle of habitués, and thus giving the Comte de la Roche-Guyon the opportunity of displaying in the midst of them so gloomy and dejected an air that his hostess could not fail to observe it, and yet was unable at once to penetrate to its cause. At last she beckoned him aside into the embrasure of a window.
"What on earth is the matter with you this evening?" she demanded. "You look as if you had been to a funeral."
Armand did not smile. On the contrary he told her his tale, garnishing it, as was necessary for her more expert ear, with preciser details. The Vicomtesse was plainly staggered.