Part 22 (2/2)

”A bet indeed! The idea of sacrificing such a handsome beard for a mere bet! I never heard of anything so foolish. But how hoa.r.s.e you are, Hippolyte!”

”All within the last hour,” whispered I. ”I was caught in the storm, just now, and ...”

”And have taken cold, for my sake! Alas! my poor, dear friend, why did you wait to speak to me? Why did you not go home at once, and change your clothes? Your sleeve, I declare, is still quite damp! Hippolyte, if you fall ill, I shall never forgive myself!”

I kissed her hand again. It was much pleasanter than whispering, and expressed all that was necessary.

”But you have not once asked after poor Bibi!” exclaimed my companion, after a momentary silence. ”Poor, dear Bibi, who has been suffering from a martyrdom with her cough all the afternoon!”

Now, who the deuce was Bibi? She might be a baby. Or--who could tell?--she might be a poodle? On this point, however, I was left uninformed; for my unknown friend, who, luckily, seemed fond of talking and had a great deal to say, launched off into another topic immediately.

”After all,” said she, ”I should have been wrong not to go to the party!

My uncle was evidently pleased with my compliance; and it is not wise to vex one's rich uncles, if one can help it--is it, Hippolyte!”

I pressed her hand again.

”Besides, Monsieur Delaroche was not there. He was not even invited; so you see how far they were from laying matchmaking plots, and how groundless were all your fears and reproaches!”

Monsieur Delaroche! Could this be the Delaroche of my special aversion?

I pressed her hand again, more closely, more tenderly, and listened for what might come next.

”Well, it is all over now! And will you promise _never, never, never_ to be jealous again? Then, to be jealous of such a creature as that ridiculous Delaroche--a man who knows nothing--who can think and talk only of his own absurd self!--a man who has not even wit enough to see that every one laughs at him!”

I was delighted. I longed to embrace her on the spot! Was there ever such a charming, sensible, lively creature?

”Besides, the c.o.xcomb is just now devoting himself, body and soul (such as they are!) to that insufferable little _intriguante_, Madame de Marignan. He is to be seen with her in every drawing-room and theatre throughout Paris. For my part, I am amazed that a woman of the world should suffer herself to be compromised to that extent--especially one so experienced in these _affaires du coeur_.”

Madame de Marignan! Compromised--experienced--_intriguante_! I felt as if I were choking.

”To be sure, there is that poor English lad whom she drags about with her, to play propriety,” continued she; ”but do you suppose the world is blinded by so shallow an artifice?”

”What English lad?” I asked, startled out of all sense of precaution, and desperately resolved to know the worst.

”What English lad? Why, Hippolyte, you are more stupid than ever! I pointed him out to you the other night at the Comedie Francaise--a pale, handsome boy, of about nineteen or twenty, with brown curling hair, and very fine eyes, which were riveted on Madame de Marignan the whole evening. Poor fellow! I cannot help pitying him.”

”Then--then, you think she really does not love him?” I said. And this time my voice was hoa.r.s.e enough, without any need of feigning.

”Love him! Ridiculous! What does such a woman understand by love?

Certainly neither the sentiment nor the poetry of it! Tush, Hippolyte! I do not wish to be censorious; but every one knows that ever since M. de Marignan has been away in Algiers, that woman has had, not one devoted admirer, but a dozen; and now that her husband is coming back....”

”Coming back! ... her husband!” I echoed, half rising in my place, and falling back again, as if stunned. ”Good heavens! is she not a widow?”

It was now the lady's turn to be startled.

”A widow!” she repeated. ”Why, you know as well as I that--_Dieu_! To whom I am speaking?”

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