The countess was seated in another dark corner. Suddenly she arose and said, in a voice blended with great trouble and impatience: “For pity's sake, Madame, cease those dirges! Play something lively; I am sad.”
The music stopped, but presently began again. Maurice leaned forward. Madame was playing Chopin's polonaise. He laughed silently. He was in Madame's thoughts. It struck him, however, that the notes had a defiant ring.
“Lights!” called Madame, rising from the stool.
Immediately a servant entered with candles and retired. Maurice, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the lights, scanned the three faces. Madame's was radiant. Fitzgerald's was a mixture—a comical mixture—of content and enjoyment, but the countess's was as colorless as the wax in the candlesticks. He asked himself what other task she had to perform that she should take so long to recover her roses. Had the knowledge of her recent humiliation been too much for her?
She was speaking to him. “Monsieur, will you walk with me in the park? I am faint.”
“Are you ill, countess?” asked Madame, coming up and placing her hand under the soft round chin of the other and striving to read her eyes.
“Not so ill, Madame, that a breath of fresh air will not revive me.” When they had gained the park, the countess said to Maurice: “Monsieur, I have brought you here to tell you something. I fear that your friend is lost, for you can do nothing.”
“Not even if I break my word?” he asked.
“It would do no good.”
“Why?”