She looked so melancholy and resigned that Marcel was moved with pity at her grief. They had now reached the brougham, the door of which was held open by the footman.
“No, mademoiselle,” said Marcel. “Rest assured Geneviève de Trémont will not forget you.”
He fastened his eyes on Mademoiselle Lichtenbach’s face, which now, in feature, seemed delicate and charming in its modest grace; then, bowing, he added, in lower tones—
“I do not think you are one of those whose fate it is to be forgotten.”
Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled and bowed. Then, entering the carriage, she said to the servant—
“Drive back home.”
Not another word was exchanged, whilst the footman climbed to his seat, and the coachman put the reins in order. Marcel, with head uncovered, stood there on the footpath in the Rue de Provènce, looking through the window of the brougham at this young girl, who appeared so simple and attractive to him, though he had never seen her until an hour before. Mademoiselle Lichtenbach sat there with bowed head, while a smile played on her lips. The carriage started, and the charm was broken.
On returning to the house Marcel reflected: If the father is a rogue, the daughter, at any rate, is a very charming person. After all, she is not responsible for her father’s misdeeds. But all this has nothing to do with me. In all probability we shall never meet again, so she may be what she likes. All the same, he could not get over the idea that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach, daughter of the declared enemy of Baradier and Graff, was a very striking character.
“Well,” said his father, who was awaiting his return, “you show yourself very polite. You could not be more gallant to a princess.”
“Probably not,” said the young man, calmly.