“I!”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“What an idea!”
Just then Caracal passed into the two-colored light of an apothecary’s shop, red on one side and green on the other; his single eye-glass darted a fantastic reflection on the duke. He might have been twin brother to Mephistopheles.
“What a devil of a man!” thought the duke; “you can hide nothing from him. He might easily be right!”
Caracal had not astonished him. In love? Perhaps he was, since others were noticing it. It is true that Caracal was not exactly “others,” powerful psychologist and searcher of hearts and brains as he was. But even Caracal would have to confess himself beaten by a Duke of Morgania parading with a circus star—that would be Parisian enough! He would no longer accuse him of inheriting the prejudices of Morgania, nor of believing in the predictions of the mad old witch!
The duke blushed at his own scruples. He envied Caracal’s effrontery.
“It is true,” he said to himself, “I have been below the mark all through. For a grand seigneur like me to be as timid as a college-boy is absurd. Helia ought to be for me simply an episode—a pastime—and nothing more.”
All these ideas had come to him while he was lighting his cigarette, and Caracal, red and green, was darting on him the reflection of his monocle.
“In love with Helia?” the duke said aloud, flattered that Caracal had such an opinion of him, “ma foi, why not?”