“We women think so. Did you take him to be... eccentric?”
Beauchamp gave a French jerk of the shoulders.
It confessed the incident of the glove to one who knew it as well as he: but it masked the weight he was beginning to attach to that incident, and Madame d’Auffray was misled. Truly, the Englishman may be just such an ex-lover, uninflammable by virtue of his blood’s native coldness; endued with the frozen vanity called pride, which does not seek to be revenged. Under wary espionage, he might be a young woman’s friend, though male friend of a half-abandoned wife should write himself down morally saint, mentally sage, medically incurable, if he would win our confidence.
This lady of sharp intelligence was the guardian of Renée during the foolish husband’s flights about Paris and over Europe, and, for a proof of her consummate astuteness, Renée had no secrets and had absolute liberty. And hitherto no man could build a boast on her reputation. The liberty she would have had at any cost, as Madame d’Auffray knew; and an attempt to restrict it would have created secrets.
Near upon the breakfast-hour Renée was perceived by them going toward the château at a walking pace. They crossed one of the garden bridges to intercept her. She started out of some deep meditation, and raised her whip hand to Beauchamp’s greeting. “I had forgotten to tell you, monsieur, that I should be out for some hours in the morning.”
“Are you aware,” said Madame d’Auffray, “that M. Beauchamp leaves us to-morrow?”
“So soon?” It was uttered hardly with a tone of disappointment.
The marquise alighted, crying hold, to the stables, caressed her horse, and sent him off with a smack on the smoking flanks to meet the groom.
“To-morrow? That is very soon; but M. Beauchamp is engaged in an Election, and what have we to induce him to stay?”
“Would it not be better to tell M. Beauchamp why he was invited to come?” rejoined Madame d’Auffray.