Now the manner in which the Duchess of Saint-Maclou saw fit to treat me—­who was desirous only of serving her—­on this occasion went far to make me disgusted with the whole affair into which I had been drawn.  It might have been supposed that she would show gratitude; I think that even a little admiration and a little appreciation of my tact would not have been, under the circumstances, out of place.  It is not every day that a lady has such a thing as the Cardinal’s Necklace rescued from great peril and freely restored, with no claim (beyond that for ordinary civility) on the part of the rescuer.

And the cause did not lie in her happening to be out of temper, for she greeted me at first with much graciousness, and sitting down on the corn bin (she was permitted on this occasion to meet me in the stable), she began to tell me that she had received a most polite—­and indeed almost affectionate—­letter from the duke, in which he expressed deep regret for her absence, but besought her to stay where she was as long as the health of her soul demanded.  He would do himself the honor of waiting on her and escorting her home, when she made up her mind to return to him.

“Which means,” observed the duchess, as she replaced the letter in her pocket, “that the Delhasses are going, and that if I go (without notice anyhow) I shall find them there.”

“I read it in the same way; but I’m not so sure that the Delhasses are going.”

“You are so charitable,” said she, still quite sweetly.  “You can’t bring yourself to think evil of anybody.”

The duchess chanced to look so remarkably calm and composed as she sat on the corn bin that I could not deny myself the pleasure of surprising her with the sudden apparition of the Cardinal’s Necklace.  Without a word, I took the case out of my pocket, opened it, and held it out toward her.  For once the duchess sat stock-still, her eyes round and large.

“Have you been robbing and murdering my husband?” she gasped.

With a very complacent smile I began my story.  Who does not know what it is to begin a story with a triumphant confidence in its favorable reception?  Who does not know that first terrible glimmer of doubt when the story seems not to be making the expected impression?  Who has not endured the dull dogged despair in which the story, damned by the stony faces of the auditors, has yet to drag on a hated weary life to a dishonored grave?

These stages came and passed as I related to Mme. de Saint-Maclou how I came to be in a position to hand back to her the Cardinal’s Necklace.  Still, silent, pale, with her lips curled in a scornful smile, she sat and listened.  My tone lost its triumphant ring, and I finished in cold, distant, embarrassed accents.

“I have only,” said I, “to execute my commission and hand the box and its contents over to you.”

And, thus speaking, I laid the necklace in its case on the corn bin beside the duchess.