“The fact is that the Florentine of the middle-ages has reappeared in our century,” said the countess. “Dante and Michael Angelo are in him.”
“That’s the very truth,” cried Adam. “He is a poet in soul.”
“So here I am, married to two Poles,” said the young countess, with a gesture worthy of some genius of the stage.
“Dear child!” said Adam, pressing her to him, “it would have made me very unhappy if my friend did not please you. We were both rather afraid of it, he and I, though he was delighted at my marriage. You will make him very happy if you tell him that you love him,—yes, as an old friend.”
“I’ll go and dress, the day is so fine; and we will all three ride together,” said Clementine, ringing for her maid.
II
Paz was leading so subterranean a life that the fashionable world of Paris asked who he was when the Comtesse Laginska was seen in the Bois de Boulogne riding between her husband and a stranger. During the ride Clementine insisted that Thaddeus should dine with them. This caprice of the sovereign lady compelled Paz to make an evening toilet. Clementine dressed for the occasion with a certain coquetry, in a style that impressed even Adam himself when she entered the salon where the two friends awaited her.
“Comte Paz,” she said, “you must go with us to the Opera.”
This was said in the tone which, coming from a woman means: “If you refuse we shall quarrel.”