Remarkably handsome, extremely rich, Thomery had had many love affairs. Gossips had it that between him and Madame de Vibray there had existed a tender intimacy; and, for once, gossip was right. But they had been tactful, had respected the conventions whilst their irregular union had lasted. Though now a thing of the past, for Thomery had sought other loves, his passion for the Baroness had changed to a calm, strong, semi-brotherly affection; whilst Madame de Vibray retained a more lively, a more tender feeling for the man whom she had known as the most gallant of lovers.
Thomery suddenly ceased talking of his rheumatism:
"But, my dear friend, I do not see that pretty smile which is your greatest charm! How is that?"
Madame de Vibray looked sad: her beautiful eyes gazed deep into those of Thomery:
"Ah," she murmured, "one cannot be eternally smiling; life sometimes holds painful surprises in store for us."
"Is something worrying you?" Thomery's tone was one of anxious sympathy.
"Yes and no," was her evasive reply. There was a silence; then she said:
"It is always the same thing! I have no hesitation in telling you that, you, my old friend: it is a money wound—happily it is not mortal."
Thomery nodded:
"Well, I declare it is just what I expected! My poor Mathilde, are you never going to be sensible?"