The Chamberlain slightly started, turned away, and smiled. “I was right,” thought he. “Here's a fellow credits himself with being the cause of jealousy.”
“Very well!” he said aloud at last, “this way,” and with the sword tucked under his arm he led, by a side-door in the turret-angle, into the garden.
Count Victor followed, stepping gingerly, for the snow was ankle-deep upon the lawn, and his red-heeled dancing-shoes were thin.
“We know we must all die,” said he in a little, pausing with a shiver of cold, and a glance about that bleak grey garden—“We know we must all die, but I have a preference for dying in dry hose, if die I must. Cannot monsieur suggest a more comfortable quarter for our little affair?”
“Monsieur is not so dirty particular,” said the Chamberlain. “If I sink my own rheumatism, it is not too much for you to risk your hose.”
“The main avenue—” suggested Count Victor.
“Is seen from every window of the ball-room, and the servants are still there. Here is a great to-do about nothing!”
“But still, monsieur, I must protest on behalf of my poor hose,” said Count Victor, always smiling.
“By God! I could fight on my bare feet,” cried the Chamberlain.
“Doubtless, monsieur; but there is so much in custom, n'est ce pas? and my ancestors have always been used with boots.”