“You are too kind,” replied Marechal, dryly, turning away.
He could not get used to Herzog’s familiarity, and there was something in the man which displeased him greatly. There was, he thought, a police-court atmosphere about him.
Suzanne, on the contrary, interested him. The simple, lively, and frank young girl attracted him, and he liked to talk with her. On several occasions, at Madame Desvarennes’s, he had been her partner. There was through this a certain intimacy between them which he could not extend to the father.
Herzog had that faculty, fortunately for him, of never appearing offended at what was said to him. He took Savinien’s arm in a familiar manner and asked: “Have you noticed that the Prince has looked very preoccupied for the last few days?”
“I don’t wonder at it,” replied Savinien. “He has been very unlucky at cards. It is all very well for his wife, my charming cousin, to be rich, but if he is going on like that it won’t last long!”
The two men withdrew to the window.
Suzanne went up to Marechal. She had resumed her thoughtful air. He saw her advancing, and, guessing what she was going to say, felt uncomfortable at having to tell an untruth if he did not wish to hurt her feelings by brutal frankness.
“Monsieur Marechal,” she began, “how is it that you are always so cold and formal with my father?”
“My dear young lady, there is a great difference between your father and me. I keep my place, that’s all.”
The young girl shook her head sadly.