Poor Madame de St. Cyr was fairly cornered. He saw it and laughed in his sleeve.
“You are very kind, M. de Baudri,� she faltered, “but after all it rests where it did. Rosaline must decide.�
He smiled. “Then, madame, you virtually acquiesce,� he said blandly; “for I trust that I can win so young and amiable a girl as mademoiselle—if you give me a fair opportunity.�
She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You have had opportunity, M. de Baudri,� she replied; “’tis not in my mind to influence her in any way. She must choose for herself.�
He was all smooth amiability now; he took his plumed hat from the table and stood a moment longer on the hearth-rug, the picture of ease and assurance,—his curled periwig, his lace cravat, his military coat, all of the latest mode.
“I will undertake to win mademoiselle’s consent,� he said. “Permit me, however, to remark that your ideas on the matter are—to say the least—unconventional. But no matter, ’twill be a little romance. There is one thing, though, I would say, madame, and that is, I notice with surprise that you keep that fellow as steward still. I spoke to you before.�
A faint flush rose on the old dame’s pale face and her eyes kindled. She was not yet accustomed to dictation.
“The man is useful to me,� she said shortly. “Monsieur forgets that he is not yet one of my family.�
De Baudri bit his lip, an ugly look in his blue eyes.
“I beg madame’s pardon,� he said, “but she probably remembers the cause of my protest; a grave one,—I believe the rogue may be a concealed Camisard.�