Fire swept over Valentine’s pale visage. “Ah no, no, but he did——” she broke out, and then, finding a difficulty in speaking, pulled herself together. “I mean, surely he must have given the Duchesse the chance of accompanying him!” She looked down at the floor as she spoke; she was aware how deeply she was discomposed, and how hot an indignation possessed her at this false accusation which she had not the right to deny. And she went on, feverishly, “In any case did not a great many . . . ci-devants . . . emigrate without their wives?”
“Yes—sometimes with other people’s!” retorted the Deputy with a wink. “However, I never heard that the Duc de Trélan did that. Mademoiselle . . . the . . . er . . . lady to whom he was assigned as admirer at the time—untruly as I believe—would certainly never have gone with him; she was too good a patriot for that! That’s Monseigneur himself yonder, over the green console. What do you think of him? He must have been much younger when that was painted, of course.”
Valentine was forced to turn and look with him at the young man in primrose satin. “I . . . I think he must have been very handsome.” Surely that remark was both safe and natural!
“Oh, you women!” exclaimed the Deputy, showing signs of a return to his jocular manner. “That always takes you—never fails! They say the Duchesse herself was not insensible to it. Well, if it is any consolation to you, Madame Vidal, no doubt he is handsome still, for that matter . . . more than can be said for that old boy next him. Who is it?” He put up his glass again to make out the name of Gaston de Trélan’s neighbour, a very early dark portrait of a Knight of Malta.
“And I cannot believe,” went on Valentine with a thrill in her voice, “that he never invited his wife to go with him.”
“ ‘Raoul de Saint-Chamans, Vice-Commander of the Order,’ ” read out Camain. “What Order, I wonder?—I beg your pardon, Madame Vidal; you were saying? . . .”
Mme de Trélan ran a finger nervously along the edge of one of the cases. “I was wondering, Monsieur le Député, from what you said, whether you knew anything of the Duc’s present whereabouts.”
“I? Dame, no, nothing at all! Why should I?”
Valentine tried to perpetrate a jest. “He might appear at Mirabel some day.”
“I shouldn’t advise him to,” returned the Deputy rather grimly. “Not, at all events, till he has made his peace with the Government. . . . If he should turn up I shall expect you to tell me,” he added lightly. “It is part of your duties as concierge. But of course he will never come. Why should he, after all these years? Much too comfortable where he is, I expect—probably married again to some rich English lady. . . . Look here, Madame Vidal, I must be going. No, leave the shutters open, please, because I should like you to go round and have a good dust here when I am gone. I keep a feather duster in the drawer of that console, under Monseigneur the ex-Duc. After you, if you please!”