“And are they all—?” began Gustave.

“Discreet?” she asked, interrupting again.  “Oh, they will not tell the truth!  Never fear, my dear Gustave!”

“What news of the duke?” asked he, as we began to walk, the duchess stepping a little ahead of us.

“Oh, the best,” said she, with a nod over her shoulder.  “None, you know.  That’s one of your proverbs, Mr. Aycon?”

“Even a proverb is true sometimes,” I ventured to remark.

We reached the house and passed through the door, which stood wide open.  Crossing the hall, we found ourselves in a small square room, furnished with rose-colored hangings.  Here supper was spread.  Gustave walked up to the table.  The duchess flung herself into an armchair.  She had taken her handkerchief out of her pocket, and she held it in front of her lips and seemed to be biting it.  Her eyebrows were raised, and her face displayed a comical 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.