The pretty Valentine who was to pose as my wife crushed the blue telegram into her coat-pocket, mounted into her seat, wrapped her rug around her, and ordered me to proceed.
I glanced at her, but she was to all appearances quite unconscious of the extraordinary contents of the Count’s letter.
We had run fully twenty miles in silence when at last, on ascending a steep hill, I turned to her and said—
“The Count has sent me some very extraordinary instructions, mademoiselle. I am, after passing the frontier, to become Count de Bourbriac, and you are to pass as the Countess!”
“Well?” she asked, arching her well-marked eyebrows. “Is that so very difficult, m’sieur? Are you disinclined to allow me to pass as your wife?”
“Not at all,” I replied, smiling. “Only—well—it is somewhat—er—unconventional, is it not?”
“Rather an amusing adventure than otherwise,” she laughed. “I shall call you mon cher Gaston, and you—well, you will call me your petite Liane—Liane de Bourbriac will sound well, will it not?”
“Yes. But why this masquerade?” I inquired. “I confess, mademoiselle, I don’t understand it at all.”
“Dear Bindo does. Ask him.” Then, after a brief pause, she added, “This is really a rather novel experience;” and she laughed gleefully, as though thoroughly enjoying the adventure.