“No, but he adores the nobility, and you are an aristocrat. The Master said,” added Montcornet, “that the men who had married in Paris during the campaign were not therefore to be considered in disgrace. Well then?”
The Comte de Soulanges looked as if he understood nothing of this speech.
“And now I hope,” the Colonel went on, “that you will tell me if you know a charming little woman who is sitting under a huge candelabrum——”
At these words the Count’s face lighted up; he violently seized the Colonel’s hand: “My dear General,” said he, in a perceptibly altered voice, “if any man but you had asked me such a question, I would have cracked his skull with this mass of gold. Leave me, I entreat you. I feel more like blowing out my brains this evening, I assure you, than——I hate everything I see. And, in fact, I am going. This gaiety, this music, these stupid faces, all laughing, are killing me!”
“My poor friend!” replied Montcornet gently, and giving the Count’s hand a friendly pressure, “you are too vehement. What would you say if I told you that Martial is thinking so little of Madame de Vaudremont that he is quite smitten with that little lady?”
“If he says a word to her,” cried Soulanges, stammering with rage, “I will thrash him as flat as his own portfolio, even if the coxcomb were in the Emperor’s lap!”
And he sank quite overcome on an easy-chair to which Montcornet had led him. The colonel slowly went away, for he perceived that Soulanges was in a state of fury far too violent for the pleasantries or the attentions of superficial friendship to soothe him.
When Montcornet returned to the ballroom, Madame de Vaudremont was the first person on whom his eyes fell, and he observed on her face, usually so calm, some symptoms of ill-disguised agitation. A chair was vacant near hers, and the Colonel seated himself.
“I dare wager something has vexed you?” said he.
“A mere trifle, General. I want to be gone, for I have promised to go to a ball at the Grand Duchess of Berg’s, and I must look in first at the Princesse de Wagram’s. Monsieur de la Roche-Hugon, who knows this, is amusing himself by flirting with the dowagers.”