Barouffski would have followed. But the young Baronne de Fresnoy addressed him. Perversely, with sudden glimpses of little teeth and an expression of glee in her piquant face, she asked:
“Was it you who performed that high act of gallantry at Longchamps to-day?”
“Was it I who did what?” Barouffski surprisedly exclaimed.
“What was it?” asked Aurelia, who with Buttercups in tow, had approached.
But Mme. de Fresnoy waved at her. “Go away my dear, it is not for an ingénue.”
“Ah then, but you see,” Aurelia indolently interjected, “I am tired of being an ingénue. An ingénue is supposed to be in a state of constant surprise and that is so exhausting.”
None the less, with Buttercups still in tow she betook herself to a corner where she was promptly joined by Farnese.
Then at once to Barouffski, to Mustim Pasha, to the Helley-Quetgens, to others that stood about, the young baroness related a morsel of gossip, the report of which had been brought her but a moment before, a story that had one of the reigning demireps for heroine and for hero a man unidentified by the baronne’s informant, the tale of an assault committed before all Paris, before all Paris that is, that happened to be at the races that day; an extravaganza in which the heroine, erupting suddenly on the pelouse before the Grand Stand, had, with her parasol, struck the hero over the head and had been about to strike him again, when he, pinioning her arms with his own, had to the applause of everybody, prevented the second assault by kissing her through her veil; after which releasing the lady, he had raised his hat and strolled away.
“Was it you, Barouffski?” Mme. de Fresnoy, the narrative at an end, inquired. “Was it?”