Madame Riano looked a trifle abashed, but rallied when Jacques Haret said impudently, taking out meanwhile a snuff-box of Gaston’s,
“And I put on all my finer feelings with these clothes. I have become a gentleman once more; but if you object to them—the clothes, I mean—I will take them off, every rag of them, here on the spot. The prospect doesn’t alarm you, does it? You, Madame, a representative of the Kirkpatricks, ought not to be frightened by a little thing like that.”
Francezka had sat still, trying to master her indignation at Jacques Haret’s presumption. But that was no restraint on him. He began, in a pleasant tone of old acquaintanceship, to Gaston:
“I suppose, Gaston, you and Madame Cheverny travel often to Versailles?”
“Not very often,” replied Gaston, recovering something of ease now that the conversation had turned away from the unlucky clothes. “Madame Cheverny has danced in several ballets before the king, and has 429 been to the masquerades, but neither of us is made to be a hanger-on of courts.”
“Good for you,” replied Jacques Haret. “I knew something of the folly of that in my childhood. My father was a born hanger-on of courts, as you express it. Some wag declared that my father’s epitaph ought to be: ‘Here lies one who was born a man and died a courtier.’ Your old Peter can tell you some stories of how my father chased after kings.”
This mention of Peter disgusted us all, and was an indignity that Francezka could not stand. She rose, and casting back at Jacques Haret one of those looks which, on the stage, had thrilled all who saw her, she walked like an insulted queen across the green sward toward the house. Madame Riano followed, for once disdainfully silent. Jacques Haret looked about him with the most innocent air in the world.
“Now, what have I done to offend the ladies?” he asked.
“I don’t think you are exactly a favorite with these ladies,” replied Gaston, smiling.
I listened in wonderment. Was it possible that Francezka had not told Gaston the story of Lisa? For he acted as if he knew nothing of it. However, I had my views about Jacques Haret’s presence there, so I rose, too, and bade Gaston a ceremonious adieu, and said nothing at all to Jacques Haret. It did not discompose him in the least, and again taking out his snuff-box, Gaston Cheverny’s snuff-box, he began to hum Sur le pont d’Avignon. That air seemed to be a favorite of his. I had gone about half way across the 430 garden, and it being large, I was out of sight and sound of Gaston and Jacques Haret, when I heard Gaston at my heels, calling “Hold!” I stopped and he joined me, with an expression both of amusement and annoyance on his face.