“Chance has had pity on me,” he replied, bowing low, as she had set him the example of ceremony.
But he had no idea of losing time in commonplace remarks—he wished to take up their intimacy on the terms it had been formerly, to resume the romance he himself had interrupted.
“I knew,” he said in the same low voice, full of persuasion, which gave especial meaning to his words, “I knew that, after all, we should meet again.”
“I did not expect it,” said Jacqueline, haughtily.
“Because you do not believe in the magnetism of a fixed desire.”
“No, I do not believe any such thing, when, opposed to such a desire, there is a strong, firm will,” said Jacqueline, her eyes burning.
“Ah!” he murmured, and he might have been supposed to be really moved, so much his look changed, “do not abuse your power over me—do not make me wretched; if you could only understand—”
She made a swift movement to rejoin Madame Strahlberg, but that lady was already coming toward them with the same careless ease with which she had left them together.
“Well! you have each found an old acquaintance,” she said, gayly. “I beg your pardon, my loveliest, but I had to speak to some old friends, and ask them to join us to-morrow evening. We shall sup at the restaurant of the Grand Hotel, after the opera—for, I did not tell you before, you will have the good luck to hear Patti. Monsieur de Cymier, we shall expect you. Au revoir.”
He had been on the point of asking leave to walk home with them. But there was something in Jacqueline’s look, and in her stubborn silence, that deterred him. He thought it best to leave a skilful advocate to plead his cause before he continued a conversation which had not begun satisfactorily. Not that Gerard de Cymier was discouraged by the behavior of Jacqueline. He had expected her to be angry at his defection, and that she would make him pay for it; but a little skill on his part, and a little credulity on hers, backed by the intervention of a third party, might set things right.