“I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr. Ritchie,” she said in English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the road again.  I followed her, perforce.

“I will show you the way to Lamarque’s,” she said.

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” I cried.

Had she no curiosity?  Was she going to let pass what Auguste had hinted?  Lifting up her skirts, she swung round and faced me.  In her eyes was a calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a moment since.  How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.

“Madame la Vicomtesse, there was once a certain miniature painted of you.”

“By Boze, Monsieur,” she answered, readily enough.  The embarrassment was all on my side.  “We spoke of it last evening.  I remember well when it was taken.  It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur le Prince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to our hotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me.”  She sighed.  “Ah, those were happy days!  Her Majesty was very angry with me.”

“And why?” I asked, forgetful of my predicament.

“For sending it to Louisiana, to Antoinette.”

“And why did you send it?”

“A whim,” said the Vicomtesse.  “I had always written twice a year either to Monsieur de St. Gre or Antoinette, and although I had never seen them, I loved them.  Perhaps it was because they had the patience to read my letters and the manners to say they liked them.”

“Surely not, Madame,” I said.  “Monsieur de St. Gre spoke often to me of the wonderful pictures you drew of the personages at court.”

Madame la Vicomtesse had an answer on the tip of her tongue.  I know now that she spared me.

“And what of this miniature, Monsieur?” she asked.  “What became of it after you restored it to its rightful owner?”

I flushed furiously and fumbled in my pocket.

“I obtained it again, Madame,” I said.

“You obtained it!” she cried, I am not sure to this day whether in consternation or jest.  In passing, it was not just what I wanted to say.

“I meant to give it you last night,” I said.

“And why did you not?” she demanded severely.

I felt her eyes on me, and it seemed to me as if she were looking into my very soul.  Even had it been otherwise, I could not have told her how I had lived with this picture night and day, how I had dreamed of it, how it had been my inspiration and counsel.  I drew it from my pocket, wrapped as it was in the handkerchief, and uncovered it with a reverence which she must have marked, for she turned away to pick a yellow flower by the roadside.  I thank Heaven that she did not laugh.  Indeed, she seemed to be far from laughter.

“You have taken good care of it, Monsieur,” she said.  “I thank you.”

“It was not mine, Madame,” I answered.

“And if it had been?” she asked.