“Wait,” said Mademoiselle, her hand on her breast. “I have something to say to you.”
“At your service, Mademoiselle.”
“Éspiau, can you trust me further?”
“In everything, Mademoiselle,” said the old man.
He was a well-trained fellow, with as much tact as discretion. He bowed to me, and I swear I couldn’t help it, I returned his bow as if he had been an equal, and he marched out of the room as stately as a grenadier.
“Is there no way,” began the Countess hastily, “for you to escape du Trémigon?”
“None.”
“I have money.”
“Mademoiselle,” I cried, “I shall take nothing from this room but the recollection of your kindness, the consciousness of your worth, the sense of your beauty.”