“Egad,” he cried, “do you mean to say, Madame, that you will go to the Baron on my behalf?”

“As soon as I ever get to town,” she said.  “He will have to be waked from his siesta, and he does not like that.”

“But he will forgive you,” said Nick, quick as a flash.

“I have reason to believe he will,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

“Faith,” cried Nick, “he would not be flesh and blood if he didn’t.”

At that the Vicomtesse laughed, and her eye rested judicially on me.  I was standing rather glumly, I fear, in the corner.

“Are you going to take him with you?” said Nick.

“I was thinking of it,” said the Vicomtesse.  “Mr. Ritchie knows you, and he is such a reliable and reputable person.”

Nick bowed.

“You should have seen him marching in a Jacobin procession, Madame,” he said.

“He follows his friends into strange places,” she retorted.

“And now, Mr. Temple,” she added, “may we trust you to stay here with Lamarque until you have word from us?”

“You know I cannot stay here,” he cried.

“And why not, Monsieur?”

“If I were captured here, I should get Monsieur de St. Gre into trouble; and besides,” he said, with a touch of coldness, “I cannot be beholden to Monsieur de St. Gre.  I cannot remain on his land.”

“As for getting Monsieur de St. Gre into trouble, his own son could not involve him with the Baron,” answered Madame la Vicomtesse.  “And it seems to me, Monsieur, that you are already so far beholden to Monsieur de St. Gre that you cannot quibble about going a little more into his debt.  Come, Mr. Temple, how has Monsieur de St. Gre ever offended you?”

“Madame—­” he began.

“Monsieur,” she said, with an air not to be denied, “I believe I can discern a point of honor as well as you.  I fail to see that you have a case.”

He was indeed no match for her.  He turned to me appealingly, his brows bent, but I had no mind to meddle.  He swung back to her.

“But Madame—!” he cried.

She was arranging the cards neatly on the table.

“Monsieur, you are tiresome,” she said.  “What is it now?”

He took a step toward her, speaking in a low tone, his voice shaking.  But, true to himself, he spoke plainly.  As for me, I looked on frightened,—­as though watching a contest,—­almost agape to see what a clever woman could do.

“There is—­Mademoiselle de St. Gre—­”

“Yes, there is Mademoiselle de St. Gre,” repeated the Vicomtesse, toying with the cards.

His face lighted, though his lips twitched with pain.

“She is still—­”

“She is still Mademoiselle de St. Gre, Monsieur, if that is what you mean.”

“And what will she think if I stay here?”

“Ah, do you care what she thinks, Mr. Temple?” said the Vicomtesse, raising her head quickly.  “From what I have heard, I should not have thought you could.”