Until then it seemed as if the sun had gotten into my brain and set it on fire. Her words had the strange effect of clearing my head, though I was still in as sad a predicament as ever I found myself. There was the thing in my pocket, still wrapped in Polly Ann's handkerchief. I glanced at the Vicomtesse shyly, and turned away again. Her face was all repressed laughter, the expression I knew so well.
“I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr. Ritchie,” she said in English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the road again. I followed her, perforce.
“I will show you the way to Lamarque's,” she said.
“Madame la Vicomtesse!” I cried.
Had she no curiosity? Was she going to let pass what Auguste had hinted? Lifting up her skirts, she swung round and faced me. In her eyes was a calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a moment since. How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.
“Madame la Vicomtesse, there was once a certain miniature painted of you.”
“By Boze, Monsieur,” she answered, readily enough. The embarrassment was all on my side. “We spoke of it last evening. I remember well when it was taken. It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur le Prince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to our hotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me.” She sighed. “Ah, those were happy days! Her Majesty was very angry with me.”
“And why?” I asked, forgetful of my predicament.
“For sending it to Louisiana, to Antoinette.”
“And why did you send it?”