Madame d’Estrades cast upon the chevalier a piercing look, full of curiosity; then seeing in his face no sign of hesitation she slowly walked away, losing herself in the crowd.
The chevalier, unable to make anything of this singular adventure, went and sat down in a corner of the gallery.
“What does that woman mean to do?” said he to himself. “She must be a little mad. She wishes to upset the state by means of a silly calumny, and she proposes to me that in order to merit the hand of her niece I should dishonor myself. But Athénaïs would no longer care for me, or, if she lent herself to such an intrigue, I would no longer care for her. What! Strive to harm this good marquise, to defame her, to blacken her character. Never! no, never!”
Always intent upon his own thoughts, the chevalier very probably would have risen and spoken aloud, but just then a small rosy finger touched him on the shoulder.
He raised his eyes and saw before him the pair of masks who had stopped him.
“You do not wish to help us a little then?” said one of the masks, disguising her voice. But although the two costumes were exactly alike, and all seemed calculated to mislead, the chevalier was not deceived. Neither the look nor the tone was the same.
“Will you answer, sir?”
“No, madame.”
“Will you write?”
“Neither will I write.”