“I have noticed that myself,” said Marie.
“Ah!” thought the count, “there’s an inflection in her voice, and a look in her eye which shows me plainly I shall soon be on terms with her; and faith! to get her, I’ll believe all she wants me to.”
He offered her his hand, for dinner was now announced. Mademoiselle de Verneuil did the honors with a politeness and tact which could only have been acquired by the life and training of a court.
“Leave us,” she whispered to Hulot as they left the table. “You will only frighten him; whereas, if I am alone with him I shall soon find out all I want to know; he has reached the point where a man tells me everything he thinks, and sees through my eyes only.”
“But afterwards?” said Hulot, evidently intending to claim the prisoner.
“Afterwards, he is to be free—free as air,” she replied.
“But he was taken with arms in his hand.”
“No,” she said, making one of those sophistical jokes with which women parry unanswerable arguments, “I had disarmed him. Count,” she said, turning back to him as Hulot departed, “I have just obtained your liberty, but—nothing for nothing,” she added, laughing, with her head on one side as if to interrogate him.
“Ask all, even my name and my honor,” he cried, intoxicated. “I lay them at your feet.”
He advanced to seize her hand, trying to make her take his passion for gratitude; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil was not a woman to be thus misled. So, smiling in a way to give some hope to this new lover, she drew back a few steps and said: “You might make me regret my confidence.”