“He reminds me of someone, that child,” observed the lady reflectively. “A long time ago . . .”
“Eat your partridge, ma mie, and never mind about the days before the Flood,” commanded Camain, setting her the example. “Remember, too, that we have ordered the carriage to be at the door by one o’clock, and that time is getting on.”
Rose pouted. “I suppose you think you have a right to be jealous now, vieux monstre!”
“It is not only a right, but a duty!” returned the monster cheerfully, going on eating, however, with a very care-free appetite.
But Rose was intrigued by the passage of the young man. “I wonder if he was alone?” she murmured, and, between taking pecks at her partridge, continually turned her head and craned her neck towards that quarter of the room from which she divined that he had come. But it was in vain; for, short of getting up and turning round altogether, she could not see it.
And Gaston de Trélan, at that table in the corner, his head on his hand, his thoughts far away, sat waiting for the advent of the meal and the return of his aides-de-camp. The two nearest officers, dragoons, with their heads close together over their wine, alternately looked at him and whispered to one another. Meanwhile people ate steadily.
All at once Rose, whose curiosity, though almost motiveless, was proving too strong for her, saying to her astonished husband, “I think I must have dropped my handkerchief from my reticule as I came in,” got up from her place before he had time to protest, and walked, her eyes on the floor as though searching for something, till she came to a spot whence she could conveniently glance at that one table in the corner which she could not see when seated. Having arrived there, she sped a look at it—at the Royalist officer sitting there alone who, as she moved across the room, raised preoccupied eyes in her direction. . . .
Next moment the entire company was electrified to see the pretty little woman in the marten furs clasp her hands suddenly together, and give a tiny scream which penetrated through all the clatter of knives and the babel of conversation. And then, more or less of silence having descended, she broke out with a name—
“Monsieur de Trélan! Is it possible!”
And not to realise who was the object of this touching recognition was difficult, for the solitary Chouan officer in the corner, after staring a moment, rose slowly to his feet and bowed—as a man bows to an unknown lady. Yet Rose stood there, her face quite white under her preposterous bonnet, apparently oblivious that every eye was either on her, or on the man to whom she had drawn attention. Then the wave of mild universal surprise was broken into and flung aside by a billow of a much more menacing kind. For, with an exclamation, one of the neighbouring officers of dragoons leapt to his feet, his chair falling backwards behind him, and strode in front of the Royalist’s table.