Thus arrayed, his wig well curled and a clump of it caught in ribbon of flame-coloured silk on the left side, his sword hanging from belt and carriages richly wrought with gold, and the general courtier-like effect rather marred by the heavy riding-boots which he would have liked to leave behind yet was constrained to wear, he presented himself before the Dowager, hiding his anxiety in a melting smile, and the latter in the profoundest of bows.
The graciousness of his reception overwhelmed him almost, for in his supreme vanity he lacked the wit to see that this cordiality might be dictated by no more than the need they had of him at Condillac. A lackey placed a great chair for him by the fire that he might warm himself after his evening ride, and the Dowager, having ordered lights, sat herself opposite him with the hearth between them.
He simpered awhile and toyed with trivialities of speech before he gave utterance to the matter that absorbed him. Then, at last, when they were alone, he loosed the question that was bubbling on his lips.
“I hear a courier came to Condillac to-day.”
For answer she told him what he sought to learn, whence came that courier, and what the message that he brought.
“And so, Monsieur de Tressan,” she ended, “my days at Condillac are numbered.”
“Why so?” he asked, “since you say that Florimond has adopted towards you a friendly tone. Surely he would not drive his father’s widow hence?”
She smiled at the fire in a dreamy, pensive manner.
“No,” said she, “he would not drive me hence. He has offered me the shelter of Condillac for as long as it may pleasure me to make it my home.”
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, rubbing his little fat hands and screwing the little features of his huge red face into the grotesque semblance of a smile. “What need to talk of going, then?”