“Why—not—the—pantry maid?” Maurice drawled. “That is flippant.” He read the message again. “What plan?” Suddenly he struck his thigh. “By George, so that is it, eh, Madame? So that is why we are so comfortably lodged here? I am in the way, and you bait the hook with a countess! Since the purse will not lead the way, the heart, eh? Certainly I shall tell my lord the Englishman all about his hostess when I return from the ride. Decidedly you are clever. O, how careless! Not even in cipher, so that he who reads may run. And who is B.?—Beauvais! Something told me that this man had a hand in the affair. I remember the look he gave me. A traitor, too.
“Hang my memory, which seems always to forget what I wish to remember and remember what I wish to forget! Where have I met this man Beauvais before? Ah, the countess!” He thrust the message into his breast. “Evidently Madame thinks I am worth consideration; uncommonly pretty bait. Shall I let the play run on, or shall I tell her? Ah! you have two minutes to spare,” he said, as she approached. “But you do not need them,” throwing a deal of admiration into his glance.
“It does not take me long to dress—on occasions.”
“A compliment to me?” he said.
“If you will accept it.”
It was an exhilarating morning, full of forest perfumes. Through the haze the mountains glittered like huge emeralds and amethysts.
“What a day!” said the countess, as they galloped away.
“Aye, for plots and war and love!”
“For plots and war?” demurely. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair as yellow as the silk of corn.
“Well, then, for love.” He shortened his rein. “A propos, have you ever been in love, countess?”