“Oh,—­what do these common people matter?” exclaimed the countess in a tone of vexation.  “And what is the harm, if they do see us?  They will only boast, when they get back to their shop in Paris, that they saw a great lady in Ault.”

But for all that, the dangerously sweet spell of the moment was broken, and did not return before Anne arrived, whom Fido ran sneezing and wriggling to meet.

For the rest of the day Wilhelm was silent and thoughtful, seeming to awake from a dream each time the countess spoke to him at dinner.  She was perfectly aware of what was going on in him, and sought by looks, words, and manner to increase the effects of the afternoon’s conversation.  When the meal was over she took Wilhelm’s arm again and asked—­totally unconcerned that the rest of the company exchanged glances—­“What are you going to do this evening?”

“I thought of taking a little walk on the shore,” he stammered shyly.

“Oh, selfish creature!—­and leave me all alone, though I might be bored to death?  No, come up to my room.  You have never paid me a visit yet.  Anne will get us some tea, and we can talk.”

The countess had two rooms on the first floor, most plainly furnished, without a carpet or a single decoration on the walls.  One of the rooms served as bedroom, the other as salon.  At least it contained no bed, but a chaise longue instead, a rocking chair, and a table with a jute cover.  The countess was inwardly much amused at Wilhelm’s timorous hesitation in crossing her threshold.  She relieved him of his hat and gave it to Anne, who hung it on a nail with the utmost gravity, but could not refrain from casting a curious glance at Wilhelm from time to time.

When the tea was on the table, and Anne had discreetly retired into the bedroom, closing the door behind her, the countess began:  “As we are to become friends—­no, we are friends already; tell me, you are my friend, are you not?”—­she held out her hand, which he pressed warmly and retained in his—­“you ought to know who I am and how I live.  I will tell you the whole truth—­I never lie, it is so vulgar and cowardly.  The worst that can be said of me, you shall hear out of my own mouth.  And still I hope that, after you have heard all, you will not feel less kindly disposed toward me than before.”

She moistened her blood-red lips in the tea without leaving hold of his hand.

“I am married.  My husband, Count Pozaldez, is Governor of the Philippine Islands.  I have lived for years in Paris.  The count had the post given to him in order to put a few thousand miles between him and me.  We have no divorce in Spain, and that was the only way of insuring to me a little peace and freedom.”  She took another little sip.  “From this you will understand,” she went on, “that I am not happily married.  You must know that I am an only child.  My father, the Marquis de Henares, idolized me.  He was a soldier through and through, very stern and reserved