"I know what they say," I replied, "but I do not know the facts of the case."
"It amounts to the same thing," said M. de Pommerive; "but don't you think it was the height of insolence in Madame de Pënâfiel to go to that race? Because she has one of the most elegant houses in Paris, because she is witty enough to say the most clever and cutting things, this imperious marquise thinks she may be permitted to do anything she pleases. It is revolting! My word of honour,—she ought to be made to feel it! And since, after all, people will go to her house, because they are well received and dine well there, it would be a shame, it would be an indignity, it would be positively wicked, I say, to be quiet about such a scandal. We would all seem to be the slaves of her caprices; perfect slaves!" said he, with indignation.
"You are quite right," said I; "you show your independence, and your noble contempt for benefits that you have received; nothing could be more manly. But do they really say that De Merteuil and De Senneterre had any quarrel about Madame de Pënâfiel, and that their challenge was in consequence of it?"
"Certainly; people say so, every one repeats the same story, and every one believes it though they themselves, that is to say Senneterre, for he is the only one left, will never admit it. I met him awhile ago as I went to inquire for that poor De Merteuil, who only lived two hours after his fall. I met Senneterre at the door looking perfectly wretched,—such a face!
"I began to sound him about Madame de Pënâfiel, but he had sufficient control over himself to pretend not to understand a word I was saying. But after the way Madame de Pënâfiel treated them both on the race-course, Senneterre could not admit the real cause of the challenge without being thought a fool."
"How could that be?" said I.
"What, haven't you heard the good story about the marquise and the Turk?" exclaimed M. de Pommerive, suddenly elated with joy.
As I had scarcely taken my eyes off Ismaël during the whole period of the race, I was curious to know how much of his story could be true; so I told M. de Pommerive that I had heard nothing at all about such a story.
Then that infernal mountebank began the following tale, accompanying it with ridiculous gestures and malicious pantomime, so as to make it more mischievous by making it amusing.
"Imagine, then, my dear monsieur," said De Pommerive, "that at the very moment when these two unfortunate young men were about to risk their lives, from an exaggerated sense of what was due to her reputation, Madame de Pënâfiel was amusing herself by falling suddenly in love with a Turk. Yes, monsieur, for an infernal scoundrel of a Turk, who is as handsome as he can be, and whom De Cernay is infatuated with, nobody knows why. But to get up such a sudden passion for a Turk; can you conceive of such a thing? I can readily believe it, for every one knows how capricious and how blasé she is, that marquise! Nothing that she could do would astonish me. But women generally try to hide such exhibitions of their feelings,—not she, not at all."