“I, Angélique? What have your triumphs or failures to do with me? No, I care not to hear.” Angélique held her half forcibly by the scarf.
“But you will care when I tell you that I met an old and valued friend of yours last night at the Castle—the new Aide-de-Camp of the Governor, Colonel Philibert. I think I have heard you speak of Pierre Philibert in the Convent, Amélie?”
Amélie felt the net thrown over her by the skilful retiaria. She stood stock-still in mute surprise, with averted eye and deeply blushing cheek, fighting desperately with the confusion she feared to let Angélique detect. But that keen-sighted girl saw too clearly—she had caught her fast as a bird is caught by the fowler.
“Yes, I met with a double defeat last night,” continued Angélique.
“Indeed! pray, from whom?” Amélie's curiosity, though not usually a troublesome quality, was by this time fairly roused.
Angélique saw her drift, and played with her anxiety for a few moments.
“My first rebuff was from that gentlemanly philosopher from Sweden, a great friend of the Governor, you know. But, alas, I might as well have tried to fascinate an iceberg! I do not believe that he knew, after a half-hour's conversation with me, whether I was man or woman. That was defeat number one.”
“And what was number two?” Amélie was now thoroughly interested in Angélique's gossip.
“I left the dry, unappreciative philosopher, and devoted myself to charm the handsome Colonel Philibert. He was all wit and courtesy, but my failure was even more signal with him than with the cold Swede.”
Amélie's eyes gave a sparkle of joy, which did not escape Angélique, but she pretended not to see it. “How was that? Tell me, pray, how you failed with Colonel Philibert?”