“There is no necessity, Monsieur,” he said.  “By the law of France it is hers to do what she likes with.”

“Precisely,” I rejoined.  “Trustees would prevent her from doing what she liked with it.  Madame has indeed a head for affairs, but she also has a woman’s heart, which sometimes interferes with a woman’s head in the most disastrous manner.”

“Article No. 1 of the protocol. Allez toujours, Monsieur.”

I went on, feeling happier.  “The next article treats of a little matter which I understand has been the cause of differences in the past between Madame and yourself.  Madame, although she has not entered the arena for some time, has not finally abandoned it.”  I smiled at the look of surprise on Lola’s face.  “An artist is always an artist, Monsieur.  She is willing, however, to renounce it for ever, if you, on your side, will make quite a small sacrifice.”

“Name it, Monsieur.”

“You have a little passion for baccarat——­”

“Surely, Monsieur,” said he blandly, “my wife would not expect me to give up what is the mere recreation of every clubman.”

“As a recreation pure and simple—­she would not insist too much, but——­” I shrugged my shoulders.  I flatter myself on being able to do it with perfect French expressiveness.  I caught, to my satisfaction, an angry gleam in his eye.

“Do you mean to say, Monsieur, that I play for more than recreation?”

“How dare I say anything, Monsieur.  But Madame is prejudiced against the Cercle Africain.  For a bachelor there is little to be said against it—­but for a married man—­you seize the point?” said I.

“Bien, Monsieur,” he said, swallowing his wrath.  “And Article 3?”

“Since you have left the army—­would it not be better to engage in some profession—­unless your private fortune dispenses you from the necessity.”

He said nothing but:  “Article 4?”

“It would give Madame comfort to live out of Algiers.”

“Moi aussi,” he replied rather unexpectedly.  “We have the whole of France to choose from.”

“Would not Madame be happier if she lived out of France, also?  She has always longed for a social position.”

“Eh, bien?  I can give her one in France.”

“Are you quite sure?” I asked, looking him in the eyes.

“Monsieur,” said he, rising and giving his moustache a swashbuckler twist upward, “what are you daring to insinuate?”

I leaned back in my chair and fingered the waxed ends of mine.

“Nothing, Monsieur; I ask a simple question, which you surely can have no difficulty in answering.”

“Your questions are the height of indiscretion,” he cried angrily.

“In that case, before we carry this interview further, the Family Council and Madame would do well to have a private consultation.”