It was now clear that I was mistaken for some one else.  Fortunately the carriage-lamps were unlit, the windows still blurred with rain, and the night intensely dark; so, feeling like a wretch reprieved on the scaffold, I shrank farther and farther into the corner, glad to favor a mistake which promised some hope of escape.

“Eh bien!” said the lady, half tenderly, half reproachfully; “have you nothing to say to me?”

Say to her, indeed!  What could I say to her?  Would not my voice betray me directly?

“Ah,” she continued, without waiting for a reply; “you are ashamed of the cruel scene of this morning!  Well, since you have not allowed the night to pass without seeking a reconciliation, I suppose I must forgive you!”

I thought, at this point, that I could not do better than press her hand, which was exquisitely soft and small—­softer and smaller than even Madame de Marignan’s.

“Naughty Hippolyte!” murmured my companion.  “Confess, now, that you were unreasonable.”

I sighed heavily, and caressed the little hand with both of mine.

“And are you very penitent?”

I expressed my penitence by another prodigious sigh, and ventured, this time, to kiss the tips of the dainty fingers.

“Ciel!” exclaimed the lady.  “You have shaved off your beard!  What can have induced you to do such a thing?”

My beard, indeed!  Alas!  I would have given any money for even a moustache!  However, the fatal moment was come when I must speak.

“Mon cher ange,” I began, trying a hoarse whisper, “I—­I—­the fact is—­a bet—­”

“A bet indeed!  The idea of sacrificing such a handsome beard for a mere bet!  I never heard of anything so foolish.  But how hoarse 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!”