The Indiscretion of the Duchess | Page 6

mixture of amusement and apprehension. A
glance of her eyes at me invited me to share the perilous jest, in which
Gustave's demeanor appeared to bear the chief part.
Gustave stood by the table, regarding it with a puzzled air.
"One--two--three!" he exclaimed aloud, counting the covers laid.
The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till
they almost reached her clustering hair.
"One--two--three?" repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning.
"Does Claire remain upstairs?"
Appeal--amusement--fright--shame--triumph--chased one another
across the eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an
appearance, so swift an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar
personal emotion proper to the duchess and to no other woman born.
And she bit the handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I

couldn't help it; I began to laugh; the duchess' face disappeared
altogether behind the handkerchief.
"Do you mean to say Claire's not here?" cried Gustave, turning on her
swiftly and accusingly.
The head behind the handkerchief was shaken, first timidly, then more
emphatically, and a stifled voice vouchsafed the news:
"She left three days ago."
Gustave and I looked at one another. There was a pause. At last I drew
a chair back from the table, and said:
"If madame is ready--"
The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave
one look at Gustave's grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh,
caught me by the arm, crying:
"Isn't it fun, Mr. Aycon? There's nobody but me! Isn't it fun?"
CHAPTER III.
The Unexpected that Always Happened.
Everything depends on the point of view and is rich in varying aspects.
A picture is sublime from one corner of the room, a daub from another;
a woman's full face may be perfect, her profile a disappointment; above
all, what you admire in yourself becomes highly distasteful in your
neighbor. The moral is, I suppose, Tolerance; or if not that, something
else which has escaped me.
When the duchess said that "it"--by which she meant the whole position
of affairs--was "fun," I laughed; on the other hand, Gustave de
Berensac, after one astonished stare, walked to the hall door.
"Where is my carriage?" we heard him ask.

"It has started on the way back three, minutes ago, sir."
"Fetch it back."
"Sir! The driver will gallop down the hill; he could not be overtaken."
"How fortunate!" said I.
"I do not see," observed Mme. de Saint-Maclou, "that it makes all that
difference."
She seemed hurt at the serious way in which Gustave took her joke.
"If I had told the truth, you wouldn't have come," she said in
justification.
"Not another word is necessary," said I, with a bow.
"Then let us sup," said the duchess, and she took the armchair at the
head of the table.
We began to eat and drink, serving ourselves. Presently Gustave
entered, stood regarding us for a moment, and then flung himself into
the third chair and poured out a glass of wine. The duchess took no
notice of him.
"Mlle, de Berensac was called away?" I suggested.
"She was called away," answered the duchess.
"Suddenly?"
"No," said the duchess, her eyes again full of complicated expressions.
I laughed. Then she broke out in a plaintive cry: "Oh! were you ever
dying--dying--dying of weariness?"
Gustave made no reply; the frown on his face persisted.
"Isn't it a pity," I asked, "to wreck a pleasant party for the sake of a fine

distinction? The presence of Mlle. de Berensac would have infinitely
increased our pleasure; but how would it have diminished our crime?"
"I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Aycon," said the duchess; "then I
needn't have asked him at all."
I bowed, but I was content with things as they were. The duchess sat
with the air of a child who has been told that she is naughty, but
declines to accept the statement. I was puzzled at the stern morality
exhibited by my friend Gustave. His next remark threw some light on
his feelings.
"Heavens! if it became known, what would be thought?" he demanded
suddenly.
"If one thinks of what is thought," said the duchess with a shrug, "one
is--"
"A fool," said I, "or--a lover!"
"Ah!" cried the duchess, a smile coming on her lips. "If it is that, I'll
forgive you, my dear Gustave. Whose good opinion do you fear to
lose?"
"I write," said Gustave, with a rhetorical gesture, "to say that I am
going to the house of some friends to meet my sister!"
"Oh, you write?" we murmured.
"My sister writes to say she is not there!"
"Oh, she writes?" we murmured again.
"And it is thought--"
"By whom?" asked the duchess.
"By Lady Cynthia Chillingdon," said I.

"That it is a trick--a device--a deceit!" continued poor