"Wearied monsieur, did she?" (with a threatening smile into his eyes). "Silly, clumsy wretch!"
"No, no, madame," laughed the chevalier; "she was a pretty Venus, but unsophisticated, unformed, somewhat vulgar."
"And your indifference broke her heart—she died for love of you?" questioned madame, wickedly.
"No, no, madame," laughed the chevalier again. "She consoled herself. She ran away with a cotton lord from Manchester, and I heard of her no more."
"She was mad—she was a fool!" cried madame, blandly mischievous. "She should have polished her dull luster, and recaptured the errant heart of her noble chevalier. I should have done so."
"You, exquisite madame?" sighed the chevalier, con amore. "Ah, but my wife was not clever like you, nor beautiful."
"She was only affectionate?" whispered madame.
"Only affectionate," and monsieur bowed.
Again their eyes met, hers streaming forth a bewildering fire, his wistful and adoring, and though her words stung the Chevalier de Calembours, the victim could not choose but hover close, and closer to admire the serpentine grace of his tormentor.
Presently, becoming weary of the amusement, the siren sent him for a chess-board, promising him a game of backgammon for reward, and turning to Margaret, with a laugh of derision, her excitement burst forth.