Casalmaggiore did not even seem inclined to behave with the solemn gravity required on such an occasion. He sat down on a comfortable chair and laid his laced cap unceremoniously upon a little table he found at his elbow, instead of holding it in his hand and sitting bolt upright with his sabre between his knees. De Maurienne thought that Italians took duelling in much too free and easy a way, and he stiffened a little and sat very straight. He was not prepared for what was coming. Casalmaggiore spoke in French.
‘I shall begin by making a little apology,’ he said, leaning back and folding his gloved hands.
De Maurienne’s eyebrows went up, high above the gold rims of his glasses, and he spoke in a politely icy tone.
‘Indeed! I cannot see how any can be required from your side, under the circumstances!’
‘Not from our friend Castiglione,’ answered the Colonel, ‘but on my own behalf. I must really beg your pardon beforehand for what I am going to say—always placing myself entirely at your disposal if I should unintentionally offend you. Is that quite clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Thank you. You are the victim of an unworthy trick, my dear de Maurienne. I am going to take the liberty of explaining exactly what has happened to you, by giving you the details of what had just occurred when you entered Donna Teresa Crescenzi’s drawing-room.’
De Maurienne looked at his visitor in surprise, and not without some suspicion.
‘Donna Teresa is a connection of mine,’ observed Casalmaggiore, ‘and I know her extremely well. What I have to say about her should not offend you. Castiglione came to me this afternoon and told me the story. I know him to be a perfectly truthful and honourable man, and I know that he is incapable of fear. Indeed, he does not know what fear is.’