“Love your enemies, says the Book,” was the interposition of the countess, who stole a sly glance at Maurice which he did not see.
“That would not be difficult—in some cases,” replied the Englishman.
“Ah, come,” thought Maurice, “my friend is beginning to pick up his lines.” Aloud he said: “Madame, will you confer a favor on me by permitting me to inform my superior in Vienna of my whereabouts?”
“No, Monsieur; prisoners are not allowed to communicate with the outside world. Are you not enjoying yourself? Is not everything being done for your material comfort? What complaint have you to offer?”
“A gilded cage is no less a cage.”
“It is but temporary. The duchess has commanded that you be held until it is her pleasure to come to the chateau. O, Monsieur, where is your gallantry? Here the countess and I have done so much to amuse you, and you speak of a gilded cage!”
“Pretty bird! pretty bird!” said Maurice, in a piping voice, “will it have some caraway?”
Madame laughed. “Well, I hear the grooms leading the horses under the porte cochere. Go, then, for the morning ride. I am sorry that I can not accompany you. I have some letters to write.”
Fitzgerald curled his mustache. “I'll forswear the ride myself. I was reading a good book last night; I'll finish it, and keep Madame company.”
Madame trifled with the toast crumbs. Fitzgerald's profound dissimulation caused a smile to cross Maurice's lips.