“You are late, monsieur,” I said jestingly; “love is often a laggard at supper, but yours is wellnigh cold.”
He did not receive my pleasantry in good part, but muttering some excuse seated himself at the board, and began to eat with the air of a man with whom the world is at variance. Seeing his ill-humor, I shrugged my shoulders and let him alone, giving my attention to my meal, although I was not a little perplexed by his obvious perturbation, for he was one of the most courteous of companions; and it was the more incomprehensible because his dress told me plainly that he had been in attendance either at court or upon mademoiselle. It was not until Pierrot had retired and we sat over our wine that I addressed another personal remark to him.
“You are ill at ease, M. de Lambert,” I said lightly.
“Not without reason, M. le Maréchal,” he replied sullenly; “one cannot see a hawk about a dove without anger.”
“So ho, monsieur!” I said, laughing. “I read the riddle. You have a rival!”
“Even so,” he replied in a low voice, “and a dangerous one.”
“What!” I exclaimed in surprise, “does mademoiselle regard him with favor?”
“How can I tell, monsieur?” he retorted impatiently; “few young girls would regard such a suitor with disfavor.”
I looked at him without understanding.
“Your meaning is obscure, monsieur,” I said.