She was sitting by the fire, giving orders for her toilette for a drive in the Bois if the weather should be fine, when Victurnien came in.

The Comte d’Esgrignon, with all his stifled capacity, his so keen intellect, was in exactly the state which might have been looked for in the woman.  His heart was beating violently, the perspiration broke out over him as he stood in his dandy’s trappings; he was afraid as yet to lay a hand on the corner-stone which upheld the pyramid of his life with Diane.  So much it cost him to know the truth.  The cleverest men are fain to deceive themselves on one or two points if the truth once known is likely to humiliate them in their own eyes, and damage themselves with themselves.  Victurnien forced his own irresolution into the field by committing himself.

“What is the matter with you?” Diane de Maufrigneuse had said at once, at the sight of her beloved Victurnien’s face.

“Why, dear Diane, I am in such a perplexity; a man gone to the bottom and at his last gasp is happy in comparison.”

“Pshaw! it is nothing,” said she; “you are a child.  Let us see now; tell me about it.”

“I am hopelessly in debt.  I have come to the end of my tether.”

“Is that all?” said she, smiling at him.  “Money matters can always be arranged somehow or other; nothing is irretrievable except disasters in love.”

Victurnien’s mind being set at rest by this swift comprehension of his position, he unrolled the bright-colored web of his life for the last two years and a half; but it was the seamy side of it which he displayed with something of genius, and still more of wit, to his Diane.  He told his tale with the inspiration of the moment, which fails no one in great crises; he had sufficient artistic skill to set it off by a varnish of delicate scorn for men and things.  It was an aristocrat who spoke.  And the Duchess listened as she could listen.

One knee was raised, for she sat with her foot on a stool.  She rested her elbow on her knee and leant her face on her hand so that her fingers closed daintily over her shapely chin.  Her eyes never left his; but thoughts by myriads flitted under the blue surface, like gleams of stormy light between two clouds.  Her forehead was calm, her mouth gravely intent—­grave with love; her lips were knotted fast by Victurnien’s lips.  To have her listening thus was to believe that a divine love flowed from her heart.  Wherefore, when the Count had proposed flight to this soul, so closely knit to his own, he could not help crying, “You are an angel!”

The fair Maufrigneuse made silent answer; but she had not spoken as yet.

“Good, very good,” she said at last. (She had not given herself up to the love expressed in her face; her mind had been entirely absorbed by deep-laid schemes which she kept to herself.) “But that is not the question, dear.” (The “angel” was only “that” by this time.) “Let us think of your affairs.  Yes, we will go, and the sooner the better.  Arrange it all; I will follow you.  It is glorious to leave Paris and the world behind.  I will set about my preparations in such a way that no one can suspect anything.”