"My dear countess," rejoined the duke, with a forced smile, "the jest is rather—"
"Pray, give me your arm," interrupted Foedora carelessly, "we are already very late. But then, it is all your own fault; how is it that you, the personification of exactitude, did not proclaim the hour of eleven long ago?"
"Ah! madame, I assure you I am not in a laughing humor. Your cruel jest wounded me to the heart."
"I was not aware that you possessed such a vulnerable heart."
"Your suspicion is unjust; I would die for you!"
"Really?"
The duke raised his eyes to heaven and heaved a long sigh.
"If I were to ask anything of you," she retorted, "it would not be so heroic a sacrifice, I assure you."
The carriage was now announced, and the party left the mansion. Almost at the same instant the old mulatto was also turning away from the place, dazzled and amazed at what he had heard and seen, and still dreaming of the blessings showered on the name of Saint-Ramon by the guests of this peculiar fête.
"Half-past eleven," murmured the old man, as the hour struck from a distant steeple. "I shall be there at midnight—and what shall I learn? Ah! what anguish is mine!"