José thought Marianne's burning glance was an expression of her love. Ah! how completely the last six months in Paris had riveted him to this woman, who was the mistress of another! One day,—Vaudrey had just left Marianne at the rond-point of the Champs-Élysées,—the duke seeing her enter his house, said abruptly to her:
"I was about to write you, Marianne."
"Why, my dear duke?"
"To ask an appointment."
"You are always welcome, my friend, at our little retreat."
He made her sit down, seized both her hands, and looked at her earnestly as he said:
"Swear to me that you have never been Lissac's mistress!"
She did not even quiver, but was as calm as if she had long awaited this question.
She boldly met José's glance and said:
"Does one ask such a question of the woman one loves?"