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 coxcomb 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 hoarse 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?”

“Madame,” I said, as steadily as my agitation would let me, “I beg you not to be alarmed.  I am not, it is true, the person whom you have supposed; but—­Nay, I implore you....”