“You whet my curiosity, monsieur; and, of course,
I am a dutiful niece. It follows that I shall
be honoured to receive you.”
“Not honoured, mademoiselle; you will confer
the honour. To-morrow at this hour, then, I
shall have the felicity to wait upon you.”
He bowed again; and again he bore her fingers to his
lips, what time she curtsied. Thereupon, with
no more than this formal breaking of the ice, they
parted.
She was a little breathless now, a little dazzled
by the beauty of the man, his princely air, and the
confidence of power he seemed to radiate. Involuntarily
almost, she contrasted him with his critic —
the lean and impudent Andre-Louis in his plain brown
coat and steel-buckled shoes — and she felt
guilty of an unpardonable offence in having permitted
even one word of that presumptuous criticism.
To-morrow M. le Marquis would come to offer her a great
position, a great rank. And already she had
derogated from the increase of dignity accruing to
her from his very intention to translate her to so
great an eminence. Not again would she suffer
it; not again would she be so weak and childish as
to permit Andre-Louis to utter his ribald comments
upon a man by comparison with whom he was no better
than a lackey.
Thus argued vanity and ambition with her better self
and to her vast annoyance her better self would not
admit entire conviction.
Meanwhile, M. de La Tour d’Azyr was climbing
into his carriage. He had spoken a word of farewell
to M. de Kercadiou, and he had also had a word for
M. de Vilmorin in reply to which M. de Vilmorin had
bowed in assenting silence. The carriage rolled
away, the powdered footman in blue-and-gold very stiff
behind it, M. de La Tour d’Azyr bowing to mademoiselle,
who waved to him in answer.
Then M. de Vilmorin put his arm through that of Andre
Louis, and said to him, “Come, Andre.”
“But you’ll stay to dine, both of you!”
cried the hospitable Lord of Gavrillac. “We’ll
drink a certain toast,” he added, winking an
eye that strayed towards mademoiselle, who was approaching.
He had no subtleties, good soul that he was.
M. de Vilmorin deplored an appointment that prevented
him doing himself the honour. He was very stiff
and formal.
“And you, Andre?”
“I? Oh, I share the appointment, godfather,”
he lied, “and I have a superstition against
toasts.” He had no wish to remain.
He was angry with Aline for her smiling reception
of M. de La Tour d’Azyr and the sordid bargain
he saw her set on making. He was suffering from
the loss of an illusion.
THE ELOQUENCE OF M. DE VILMORIN
