“I am at your service.”
And he followed them to the end of the picture-gallery, near a window opening on a balcony.
Here they were unobserved except by the man in the Venetian cloak, whom the clown had so respectfully addressed as “M. the Count.”
The minuet having ended, the orchestras were resting, and the crowd began to rapidly fill the gallery.
The sudden faintness of Mme. Fauvel had passed off unnoticed save by a few, who attributed it to the heat of the room. M. Fauvel had been sent for; but when he came hurrying in, and found his wife composedly talking to Madeleine, his alarm was dissipated, and he returned to the card-tables.
Not having as much control over his temper as Raoul, M. de Clameran angrily said:
“In the first place, monsieur, I would like to know who you are.”
The clown determined to answer as if he thought the question were a jest, replied in the bantering tone of a buffoon:
“You want my passport, do you, my lord doge? I left it in the hands of the city authorities; it contains my name, age, profession, domicile, and every detail—”
With an angry gesture, M. de Clameran interrupted him.