In thus yielding to the impulse of one’s feelings, one can say: “It was not I who willed it, it was fate.”
“It will be quicker, perhaps,” observed the count, “to go to Noel.”
“Let us start then, sir.”
“I hardly know though, my child,” said the old gentleman, hesitating, “whether I may, whether I ought to take you with me. Propriety—”
“Ah, sir, propriety has nothing to do with it!” replied Claire impetuously. “With you, and for his sake, I can go anywhere. Is it not indispensable that I should give some explanations? Only send word to my grandmother by Schmidt, who will come back here and await my return. I am ready, sir.”
“Very well, then,” said the count.
Then, ringing the bell violently, he called to the servant, “My carriage.”
In descending the steps, he insisted upon Claire’s taking his arm. The gallant and elegant politeness of the friend of the Count d’Artois reappeared.
“You have taken twenty years from my age,” he said; “it is but right that I should devote to you the youth you have restored to me.”
As soon as Claire had entered the carriage, he said to the footman: “Rue St. Lazare, quick!”