A light touch on his arm recalled him to himself. He turned and found Mademoiselle Claire at his elbow holding a glass of wine towards him. Her lips were compressed, but her face wore a delicate flush, and her eyes were changed and softened.
"Drink," she muttered hurriedly. "You are still weak; you have eaten nothing."
He controlled himself by an effort and took the wine; and the girl, moving away quickly, brought from the table a roll and, without again meeting his eyes, laid it on a chair beside him. She was in the act of regaining her place by the window, when the door opened somewhat abruptly, and the young Vicomte, scarcely master of himself, turned and discovered a man standing on the threshold.
The stranger stared at him and he at the stranger, while Mademoiselle Claire, with eyes which on a sudden became keen and intent, seemed to forget herself in gazing on both. The new-comer was taller than the Vicomte and of about the same age; a thin, lithe man, with restless eyes and dark, tumbled hair. He scanned the Vicomte with at least as much disfavour as the latter, taken by surprise, spent on him; and he was the first to speak.
"I thought that you were alone, mademoiselle," he said, frowning as he advanced into the room and looked about him suspiciously.
"This is a friend of my father's," she answered, "He is staying with us, M. Baudouin."
The explanation did not seem to improve matters in the young man's eyes. He frowned still more gloomily.
"Monsieur is from the country?" he asked.
"No," the Vicomte answered. "I have been in Paris some months."
The stranger looked darkly down, toying with a book which lay at the edge of the table. The girl waited awhile and then—