The Marquis started.

“To Rome?”

“Yes, to Rome.  I am going, and I want someone to look after me.  Will you come?  All Paris will say we have eloped together.”  She laughed merrily.

The Marquis stood perplexed and silent.

“Well, what is it?” went on the Princesse gaily, “Is there some faint sense of impropriety stealing over you?  Not possible!  Dear me, your very muscles are growing rigid!  You will not go?”

“Madame, if you will permit me to be frank with you,—­I would rather not!”

“A la bonheur!—­then I have you!” And the Princesse rose, a dazzling smile irradiating her features, “You have thrown open your heart!  You have begun to reform!  You love Sylvie Hermenstein—­yes!—­you positively love her!”

“Princesse—­” began the Marquis, “I assure you—­”

“Assure me nothing!” and she looked him straight in the eyes, “I know all about it!  You will not journey with me because you think the Comtesse Sylvie will hear of it, and put a wrong construction on your courtesy.  You wish to try for once, to give her no cause for doubting you to be sans peur et sans reproche.  You wish to make her think you something better than a sort of Miraudin whose amorous inclinations are not awakened by one woman, but by women!  And so you will not do anything which, though harmless in itself, may seem equivocal.  For this you refuse the friendly invitation of one of the best known ‘society leaders’ in Europe!  Cher Marquis!—­it is a step in the right direction!  Adieu!”

“You are not going so soon,” he said hurriedly, “Wait till I explain . . .”

“There is nothing to explain!” and the pretty Princesse gave him her hand with a beneficent air, “I am very pleased with you.  You are what the English call ‘good boy’!  Now I am going to see the Abbe and place the Chateau D’Agramont at his disposal while he is waiting to be excommunicated,—­for of course he will be excommunicated—­”

“What does it matter!—­Who cares?” said the Marquis recklessly.

“It does not matter, and nobody cares—­not in actual Paris.  But very very nice people in the suburbs, who are morally much worse than the Abbe, will perhaps refuse to receive him.  That is why my doors are open to him, and also to his son.”

“Original, as usual!”

“Perfectly!  I am going to write a column for the Figaro on the amazing little scene of this morning.  Au revoir!  My poor horse has been waiting too long already,—­I must finish my ride in the Bois, and then go to Angela Sovrani; for all the dramatis personae of to-day’s melodrama are at her studio, I believe.”

“Who is that boy with the Cardinal?” asked the Marquis suddenly.

“You have noticed him?  I also.  A wonderful face!  A little acolyte, no doubt.  And so you will not go to Rome with me?”

“I think not,” and Fontenelle smiled.

“Comme il vous plaira!  I will tell Sylvie.”