“Mon cher, Grarm Varn wants to know for what
Sabine shades Rochebriant has deserted the ‘fumum
opes strepitumque’ of the capital.”
“Ah! the Marquis is a friend of yours, Monsieur?”
“I can scarcely boast that honour, but he is
an acquaintance whom I should be very glad to see
again.”
“At this moment he is at the Duchesse de Tarascon’s
country-house near Fontainebleau; I had a hurried
line from him two days ago stating that he was going
there on her urgent invitation. But he may return
to-morrow; at all events he dines with me on the 8th,
and I shall be charmed if you will do me the honour
to meet him at my house.”
“It is an invitation too agreeable to refuse,
and I thank you very much for it.”
Nothing worth recording passed further in conversation
between Graham and the two Frenchmen. He left
them smoking their cigars in the garden, and walked
homeward by the Rue de Rivoli. As he was passing
beside the Magasin du Louvre he stopped, and made
way for a lady crossing quickly out of the shop towards
her carriage at the door. Glancing at him with
a slight inclination of her head in acknowledgment
of his courtesy, the lady recognised his features,—
“Ah, Mr. Vane!” she cried, almost joyfully—“you
are then at Paris, though you have not come to see
me.”
“I only arrived last night, dear Mrs. Morley,”
said Graham, rather embarrassed, “and only on
some matters of business which unexpectedly summoned
me. My stay will probably be very short.”
“In that case let me rob you of a few minutes—no,
not rob you even of them; I can take you wherever
you want to go, and as my carriage moves more quickly
than you do on foot, I shall save you the minutes instead
of robbing you of them.”
“You are most kind, but I was only going to
my hotel, which is close by.”
“Then you have no excuse for not taking a short
drive with me in the Champs Elysees—come.”
Thus bidden, Graham could not civilly disobey.
He handed the fair American into her carriage, and
seated himself by her side.
“Mr. Vane, I feel as if I had many apologies
to make for the interest in your life which my letter
to you so indiscreetly betrayed.”
“Oh, Mrs. Morley! you cannot guess how deeply
that interest touched me.”
“I should not have presumed so far,” continued
Mrs. Morley, unheeding the interruption, “if
I had not been altogether in error as to the nature
of your sentiments in a certain quarter. In
this you must blame my American rearing. With
us there are many flirtations between boys and girls
which come to nothing; but when in my country a man
like you meets with a woman like Mademoiselle Cicogna,
there cannot be flirtation. His attentions,
his looks, his manner, reveal to the eyes of those
who care enough for him to watch, one of two things—either
