"What can there be until then?" she asked. "On the night of the day chosen I shall know. At the bal masqué I will tell you his name."
Monsieur Roché looked the picture of despair, and then, with a gesture as though the whole world had been lost to him, spoke in an undertone to the Countess, said something that I judged by a dainty frown she did not favor; but in an instant the cloud had passed, and she smiled again, and answered, "As you will."
Yet to me it still seemed that she was being forced into some action she would not have elected of her own free choice.
Then Monsieur Roché, still a little embarrassed, turned to me. "A message—a written message—is to be conveyed to me at the bal masqué; I cannot be there, and"—how charmingly he was confused—"will you receive it for me?"
"And take it at once to Le Quai d'Orsay," the Countess interjected.
"Bring it myself?" I cried, in simulated surprise.
"Yes," monsieur answered, and tactfully continued, "I am shamed at the greatness of the favor I ask, but it is vital."
"Very well," I reluctantly consented. "If that be so I will do it;" and he murmured his thanks.
"At midnight I shall pass the head of the staircase and slip a note into your hand," the Countess exclaimed; "that will be the message."
"But we are all incognito," I observed, with my most ingenuous smile.