"You do not suppose I am insulting you by anything so commonplace? Compliment is the language of fools and flatterers. I am speaking the plain unvarnished truth."
"Truth!" and she laughs lightly; "who speaks the truth now? It is as old-fashioned a virtue as honesty."
"Unless one finds it impossible to act indifference."
"Come, Count," she says good-humouredly, "we know each other too well to talk in this strain. We are all bons camarades here; no sentiment, and no seriousness. I gave you credit for more sense than to fear you would break through the rule."
His brows contract with a sudden angry frown.
"You do not mean what you say! A woman like yourself cannot set bounds to a man's admiration, or check his feelings by ridicule. I have scoffed at sentiment all my life as a thing fit only for boys and women. But all that I have hitherto disdained has amply revenged my past indifference. And you—you have not discouraged me, madame?"
Her heart beats high. A sudden warm colour comes into her face beneath its delicate rouge; but not from any gratification at the homage—not for any reason that makes him interpret these signs as flattering to himself. Only because she sees herself a step further on the road of her vengeance—only because triumph whispers to her that the end is not far off.
She rises after those last words, laughing still. "I do not believe in love, monsieur, any more than yourself. No one has been able to convert me. To parody an old saying, with me it is only a case of 'La reine s'amuse.'"
"And is this boy only a plaything also?" he says, with an angry sneer.
"Of course. Is he not a charming one?" she says with sudden gravity. "So earnest and credulous; quite refreshing. We have so long passed that stage of life, nous autres."