"I had promised to lend her a government book upon the island of Martinique."
And then—for I could scarce restrain a smile—it was so ridiculous for one of the belles of Paris to take to the study of official reports; he hotly continued: "Now you see why I did not tell Monsieur Roché the truth, for even you do not believe it. It seems too childish, too ridiculous."
"It seems too childish to be false, mon ami," I answered; "but are you sure there was not some little—what shall I say when a beautiful woman and a clever man are concerned?—some little—"
"You need say nothing, Aidë," he answered, looking me straight in the face; "you know there was not."
And my heart seemed to suddenly grow so light that I forgot the serious business that troubled us.
"Well, mon cher Gaspard, I think it is a mistake; a promising diplomat ought to have tendencies towards matrimony, because it is so respectable."
"Only let me get this wretched problem solved, Aidë, and then I will give you a commission to find me a wife. But I am hard to please," he laughed. "She must be the most beautiful woman in Paris, the most brilliant, and the most accomplished."
I think there must have been just a tinge of heightened color in my cheeks, and we were both smiling, forgetful of misfortune; but I had promised to find this paragon, and so I lightly laid my hand on his, and murmured, "Gaspard, mon cher, she is the very woman you shall marry."
I believe it was in his thoughts to say more, but I stopped him. "Let us get back to serious realities," I said. "Mlle. Desormes called upon you ostensibly for the Yellow Book that you promised to lend her. Was she left alone in your room?"
"For five minutes, perhaps, while I went to fetch it."