“What secrets have I withheld from you?” I inquired, dismayed.
“Secrets concerning your private affairs.”
I knew well that she referred to my passion for Yolande. For a moment I hesitated, until words rose to my lips and I answered:
“Surely my private affairs are of little interest to you! Why should I trouble you with them?”
“Because we are friends, are we not?” she said, looking straight into my face with those fine eyes which half Europe had admired when le pied de la Princesse had been the catchword of Paris.
“Most certainly, Léonie,” I agreed. “And I hope that our friendship will last always.”
“It cannot if you refuse to confide in me and sometimes to seek my advice.”
“But you, in your position, going hither and thither, with hosts of friends around you, can feel no real interest in my doings?” I protested.
“Friends!” she echoed in a voice of sarcasm. “Do you call these people friends? My guests at this moment are not friends. Because of my position—because I am popular, and it is considered chic to stay at Chantoiseau—because I have money, and am able to amuse them, they come to me, the men to bow over my hand, and the women to call me their ‘dear Princess.’ Bah! they are not friends. The diplomatic set come because it is a pleasant mode of passing a few weeks of summer, while still within hail of Paris; and the others—well, they are merely the entourage which every fashionable woman unconsciously gathers about her.”
“Then among them all you have no friend?” Again she turned her fine eyes upon me, and in a low but distinct tone declared: