“Then I shall call on you again to-morrow, Helene,” said he, plucking nervously at his glove.  “You will have had time to reflect.  You will see matters differently.”

Madame Courcelles shook her head.

“Reflection will not change my opinion,” she said gently.

“Well, shall I send Lejeune to you?  He acts as solicitor to the company, and ...”

“Mon cousin” interposed the lady, “I have already given you my decision—­why pursue the question further?  I do not wish to see Monsieur Lejeune, and I have no speculative tastes whatever.”

Monsieur de Caylus, with a suppressed exclamation that sounded like a curse, rent his glove right in two, and then, as if annoyed at the self-betrayal, crushed up the fragments in his hand, and laughed uneasily.

“All women are alike,” he said, with an impatient shrug.  “They know nothing of the world, and place no faith in those who are competent to advise them.  I had given you credit, my charming cousin, for broader views.”

Madame de Courcelles smiled without replying, and caressed the little dog, which had come out from under the sofa to fondle round her.

“Poor Bijou!” said she.  “Pretty Bijou!  Do you take good care of him, mon cousin?”

“Upon my soul, not I,” returned De Caylus, carelessly.  “Lecroix feeds him, I believe, and superintends his general education.”

“Who is Lecroix?”

“My valet, courier, body-guard, letter-carrier, and general factotum.  A useful vagabond, without whom I should scarcely know my right hand from my left!”

“Poor Bijou!  I fear, then, your chance of being remembered is small indeed!” said Madame de Courcelles, compassionately.

But Monsieur le Vicomte only whistled to the dog; bowed haughtily to me; kissed, with an air of easy familiarity, before which she evidently recoiled, first the hand and then the cheek of his beautiful cousin, and so left the room.  The next moment I saw him spring into the cabriolet, take his place beside Monsieur de Simoncourt, and drive away, with Bijou following at a pace that might almost have tried a greyhound.

“My cousin, De Caylus, has lately returned from Algiers on leave of absence,” said Madame de Courcelles, after a few moments of awkward silence, during which I had not known what to say.  “You have heard of him, perhaps?”

“Yes, Madame, I have heard of Monsieur de Caylus.”

“From Captain Dalrymple?

“From Captain Dalrymple, Madame; and in society.”

“He is a brave officer,” she said, hesitatingly, “and has greatly distinguished himself in this last campaign.”

“So I have heard, Madame.”

She looked at me, as if she would fain read how much or how little Dalrymple had told me.

“You are Captain Dalrymple’s friend, Mr. Arbuthnot,” she said, presently, “and I know you have his confidence.  You are probably aware that my present position with regard to Monsieur de Caylus is not only very painful, but also very difficult.”