“Madame,” Maurice whispered to the countess, “I have lost all faith in you; you have kept me too long under the stars.”
“Confidences?” said Madame, with a swift inquiring glance at the countess.
“O, no,” said Maurice. “I simply complained that Madame the countess had kept me too long under the stars. But here is Colonel Mollendorf, freshly returned from Brunnstadt to inform you that the army is fully prepared for any emergency. Is not that true, Colonel?” as he beheld that individual standing in the doorway.
“Yes; but how the deuce—your pardon, ladies!—did you find that out?” demanded the Colonel.
“I guessed it,” was the answer. “But there will be no need of an army now. Come, John, the Colonel, who is no relative of the king's minister of police, has not the trick of concealing his impatience. He has something important to say to Madame, and we are in the way. Come along, AEneas, follow your faithful Achates; Thalia has a rehearsal.”
Fitzgerald thrust his pipe into a pocket. “Good night, Madame,” he said diffidently; “and you, countess.”
“Good night, Colonel,” sang out Maurice over his shoulder, and together the pair climbed the stairs.
Fitzgerald was at a loss how to begin, for something told him that Maurice would demand an explanation, though the affair was none of his concern. He filled his pipe, fired it and tramped about the room. Sometimes he picked up the end of a window curtain and felt of it; sometimes he posed before one of the landscape oils.
“You have something on your mind,” said Maurice, pulling off his hussar jacket and kicking it across the room.
“Madame has promised to be my wife.”