Upon a side-table stood a great silver bowl of La France roses, which filled the room with their fragrance, and near it, in a comfortable chaise-longue, reclined Aimée, looking sweet and dainty in a soft, filmy evening-gown of palest carnation pink.
She looked up from her book, startled, as the door opened, and then, recognising her visitor, rose, rather stiffly, to greet him.
“What, all alone, my dear Mademoiselle?” exclaimed Rigaux, as though in surprise, as he bowed over her hand. “I have been chatting with the Baron, but I expected to find Madame here. Well, and what do you think of all this very alarming news—eh?”
“Awful—is it not?” the girl replied, inviting him to a chair.
“The Baron and I have just been discussing it, and we are of opinion that there will be no war. I notice, however, in the papers to-night, a report of Monsieur Valentin’s great success in the Affaire of the Rue du Trône. I must congratulate him—and yourself.”
The girl blushed slightly. It was the first time this man, whom she so heartily hated, had ever mentioned her lover. Indeed, she was not, until that moment, quite certain whether he was aware of her secret—whether the Baron had told him.
“Yes,” she managed to reply at last. “It should secure him a foothold in his profession. The papers say that his speech for the defence was apparently one of the most clever and brilliant ever heard in the Courts.”
“And you, of course, must be justly proud, eh, Mademoiselle?” he remarked, looking straight into her beautiful eyes.
“Well, I suppose so,” she laughed, her fingers toying nervously with the leaves of Bazin’s latest romance.
He sighed deeply. Then, after a pause, said: