“Madame,” said the count, laughing, “so far, it is only women who have taken her innocence away from her.”
The marquis privately forgave the count. When he ventured to look at his mistress, whose beauty was, like that of most women, brought into relief by the light of the wax candles, she turned her back upon him as she resumed her place, and went on talking to her partner in a way to let the marquis hear the sweetest and most caressing tones of her voice.
“The First Consul sends dangerous ambassadors,” her partner was saying.
“Monsieur,” she replied, “you all said that at La Vivetiere.”
“You have the memory of a king,” replied he, disconcerted at his own awkwardness.
“To forgive injuries one must needs remember them,” she said quickly, relieving his embarrassment with a smile.
“Are we all included in that amnesty?” said the marquis, approaching her.
But she darted away in the dance, with the gaiety of a child, leaving him without an answer. He watched her coldly and sadly; she saw it, and bent her head with one of those coquettish motions which the graceful lines of her throat enabled her to make, omitting no movement or attitude which could prove to him the perfection of her figure. She attracted him like hope, and eluded him like a memory. To see her thus was to desire to possess her at any cost. She knew that, and the sense it gave her of her own beauty shed upon her whole person an inexpressible charm. The marquis felt the storm of love, of rage, of madness, rising in his heart; he wrung the count’s hand violently, and left the room.
“Is he gone?” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, returning to her place.
The count gave her a glance and passed into the next room, from which he presently returned accompanied by the Gars.