The Comte’s glance lit for an instant on the scrap of ribbon on the speaker’s breast. It was Schnitterl, the Marquis’s Austrian body-servant—not long ago serving their meal—who, as he was never tired of relating, had found his master half-dead on the battlefield of Rivoli.
“If Mme de Trélan had emigrated,” the tormentor pursued, “the Duc would be spared the burden of remorse which he carries—or does not carry, as the case may be.” With that he pushed the bottle of wine towards his companion and looked him full in the face.
But M. de Kersaint, though rather white about the mouth, met the look quite steadily. “Thank you,” he said, taking the bottle. But he offered no remark on the subject of the Duc de Trélan’s problematical burden.
“Do you know, de Kersaint,” shot out the Comte suddenly, watching him as he filled his glass, “that there is a portrait at Mirabel which reminded me very strongly of you—of what you must have been when you were younger.”
“Well, you know I am kin to the family.” He had not spilled a drop of wine.
“But by marriage only!” riposted the Comte like lightning. “You laid some stress on that once.”
The Marquis shrugged his shoulders. “You forgot that, I expect, when you thought you saw a likeness. Some people,” he pursued with commendable sangfroid, “are always seeing resemblances of that sort in relations by marriage.”
“Indeed! Well, you might have sat for this picture! I saw it when I was arrested, for I was taken up into the room where all your—I mean your kinsman’s—family portraits now hang. Camain, the Deputy of whom I have told you, happened to be there with a party of friends, including his bonne amie, Mlle Dufour—the actress, Rose Dufour.”
“Yes?”
“It was piquant to see her there, with her great bourgeois admirer, going round the Duc’s china under the eyes of all his ancestors—and under someone else’s, too,” he added mentally, “and must have been even more piquant for her—the Duc’s former mistress.”