"I beg, monsieur, that you will not let me deprive you of madame's society. I am just on the way to Paris, and was taking my leave as you came."
He finished, quite heedless of Victorine's imploring glance, which, however, de Coigny caught.
"If you are going to the city, you must first have something—a glass of wine. Yes, yes! It will not be long. I will order at once."
In spite of de Bernis' earnest protestation, Victorine summoned the valet and ordered wine and rissoles for all three.
"You will, then, allow me to partake with you?" asked the Maréchal, with a quizzical scrutiny of his wife, who merely nodded, saying, dully:
"We are delighted, monsieur."
De Bernis was displeased. It was never agreeable to him to face Jules de Coigny, and he would have been glad to escape at once after that destructive silence of Victorine's. He had all his ideas to readjust, a fresh plan to make, and a verse or two to compose for extemporaneous use during the evening. However, he made better show of being at ease for the next quarter of an hour than did madame; and he managed to carry on a very creditable conversation about the Vauvenaigues salon while sipping his wine and crumbling the pâtê. He took his departure, without undue haste, at just the right moment, kissed madame's hand with ceremony, and bowed himself away from the Maréchal, feeling that he should not often see that small salon again. It would not be wise.
When the abbé was gone, and Jules and his wife were left alone together, Victorine looked uneasily about her, hoping for a means of escape.
"I must ask your pardon, madame, once more, for having been so stupid as to have intruded upon you. Gérome did not inform me—"
"It is of no consequence, monsieur. As you heard, the abbé was on the point of departure. Did you, by some chance, wish to speak with me?"