When a woman recollects, a year after, what she said to a man the second time she met him, that man may count on her having a singular regard for him. And Roger Egremont, who was not unlearned in women, felt his pulses tingle when she spoke. He suspected it was an inadvertence, but it was not less delicious on that account.
Michelle spoke kindly to Dicky, who had seen her many times before, but whose youth and profession and lack of consequence had made him keep his distance.
“I wish you good fortune,” she said smilingly. “I know not when I shall see France again, but I shall hope to see you then.”
“I rather hope, madam,” replied Dicky, blushing very much, “that we shall meet again in England.”
Madame de Beaumanoir, catching sight of Dicky, called out,—
“So that’s the young Egremont who is to be a Jesuit, and to go to England to be hanged for it.”
“A man can die but once,” answered Dicky, very readily, but blushing still more; “and if I am to be hanged, I feel sure an English hangman would do the job better, in less time, and in a manner more becoming a gentleman, than a hangman of any other country whatever.”
“Why, boy,” cried the old Duchess, “I did not dream your black beretta had so much wit under it; and you are comely too, like the Egremonts—too comely for a priest. Cast off that black robe, and be a cavalier, and marry some charming girl with a fortune.”
To which Dicky had enough of the ineffable impudence of the Egremonts to reply,—
“Alas, madam, the lady who might win me from my vocation is far above me, being a Duchess, and, although still young, is older than I—” at which Madame de Beaumanoir screeched with delight, and Roger made a note in his pocket-book.