“I thank you—oh, so much!” she whispered as she passed him—and the look that went with the words cleared all her scores—and almost finished him.
So much for a smile—when a beautiful woman smiles, and smiles in just the right way, and especially when the man smiled on is a Frenchman.
The Ambassador was standing by a large, flat-topped desk in the centre of the room, his back was to the light, which was generously given in all its effulgence to his visitors. He was a small man and slight of build, intensely nervous, with well-cut features, gray hair—what there was of it—and a tiny black moustache curled up at the ends but not waxed.
He came briskly forward and extended his hand.
“My dear Madame Clephane,” he said in French, leading her to a chair, “how can I serve you?”
“By listening to my story, your Excellency, and believing it,” Mrs. Clephane answered,—“and at the end not being too severe on me for my misfortune and ignorance.”
“That will not be difficult,” he bowed, with a frank look of admiration. “You come from Madame Durrand, I believe?”
“Yes—you know Madame Durrand?”
The Marquis nodded. “I have met her several times.”
“I’m glad!” said she. “It may help me to prove my case.”