"It is not true," I cried; and the blood mounted to my cheeks in anger, for truly Gaspard Levivé was a friend of mine, one whom I delighted to call my greatest friend.
"It is only too true," Monsieur Roché gravely answered. "I am disgraced, and the young fool is ruined. At least not ruined," he bitterly continued: "doubtless he will be rewarded by the new ministry."
"If this be the prelude to a commission, monsieur, I refuse it."
"There is no commission, madame; the day is hopelessly lost. I have been betrayed by my own secretary."
We had met crossing the Place de la Concorde, and had stayed talking by the Luxor Obelisk, and now I deliberately obscured Monsieur Roché with my sunshade, and gazed up the vista of the Champs-Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe. Suddenly I turned, closed my parasol with a vicious snap, and looked angrily into his face.
"I accept the commission, monsieur; tell me all."
He placed his hand upon my arm.
"You are angry, ma chère, and so am I. You are wounded, and I am also. Let it pass; there is no commission."
"Some mystery," I cried.
"No mystery and no solution; all is too wretchedly clear. You are anxious to defend Gaspard, so am I; but it is useless; he stands self-condemned, and we had best forget his very existence."