“And on what faith,” said she, “on what assurance, did you believe yourself able to penetrate as far as this? For you did not count, I suppose, upon a horse’s falling on the way.”
“Madame, I believed—I hoped—”
“What did you hope?”
“I hoped that chance—might make—”
“Chance again! Chance is apparently one of your friends; but I warn you that if you have no other, it is a sad recommendation.”
Perhaps offended Chance wished to avenge herself for this irreverence, for the chevalier, whom these few questions had more and more troubled, suddenly perceived, on the corner of the table, the identical fan that he had picked up the night before. He took it, and, as on the night before, presented it to the marquise, bending the knee before her.
“Here, madame,” he said to her, “is the only friend that could plead for me—”
The marquise seemed at first astonished, and hesitated a moment, looking now at the fan, now at the chevalier.
“Ah! you are right,” she said at last, “it is you, monsieur! I recognize you. It is you whom I saw yesterday, after the play, as I went by with M. de Richelieu. I let my fan drop, and you ‘found yourself there,’ as you were saying.”
“Yes, madame.”