“That's comfort;” and Maurice turned in.
This night it was the Englishman who sat up till the morning hours. Sylvia Amerbach.... A fear possessed him. If it should be, he thought; if it should be, what then?
Midnight in Madame's boudoir; no light save that which streamed rosily from the coals in the grate. The countess sat with her slippered feet upon the fender. She held in her hand a screen, and if any thoughts marked her face, they remained in blurred obscurity.
“Heu!” said Madame from the opposite side; “it is all over. It was detestable. I, to suffer this humiliation! Do you know what I have done? I have promised to be his wife! His wife, I! Is it not droll?” There was a surprising absence of mirth in the low laugh which followed.
“I trust Madame will find it droll.”
“And you?”
“And I, Madame?”
“Yes; did you not bring the clown to your feet?”
“No, Madame.”
“How? You did not have the joy denied me—of laughing in his face?”