“If you say you dropped it because you were carrying my pelisse I’ll take the pelisse myself!” Mlle Dufour’s voice emerged again, sounding less good-humoured than usual. “No, I’m not going to carry it on my arm—Heaven forbid. You can put it on my shoulders, only don’t drop it also—Bon Dieu, what’s that?”
For a loud knock had come at the door, which stood ajar—a knock that sounded to Valentine like the summons of Fate. Moving a trifle, she was able to see the soldier outside, whose approaching footfalls the recent scene had drowned. A sensitive lady gave a little scream.
“Who’s there?” asked Camain, the violet satin held above Mlle Dufour’s bare shoulders. “Excuse me, ma mie!” He dropped the cloak upon its destination without much ceremony, and strode to the door, where the National Guard was seen to salute and to say something in a low voice.
“Tut, tut!” said the Deputy. “Well, I suppose I had better come down and ask him a few questions.”
“What is it, Georges?” asked the Dufour, who had glided to the door after him, the ermine slipping half off her shoulders.
“The guard have captured a man who has just made an entrance into the building, and they would like me to have a look at him before marching him off.”
“How interesting!” cried the actress. “What a coup de théâtre! Do not go down to him, Georges! Let them bring him up here! This might have been arranged for us. What was he doing?”
Nobody could answer that question but Valentine, and she only in part. Camain hesitated a moment, but only a moment. “Very well,” he said. “Tell them to bring him up here,” he added to the National Guard.
A hot flame of indignation ran over the Duchesse. The Comte de Brencourt, a gentleman, was then to be made a show for the passing curiosity of a courtesan and her friends! But what had he been about, in daylight too? The same question no doubt was exercising the Deputy, for he turned round, his look seeking her out; and, being half a head taller than any one else in the room, he easily found her.
“Here is a pretty find to be made on your domain, Madame Vidal!” he said. The voice sounded jocular, but she was not sure of the genuineness of that jocularity. She was saved the necessity of a reply by a remark from one of the ladies, winged by a malicious side-glance at her, the shabby, middle-aged caretaker; “Perhaps it is the Prince come after the Sleeping Beauty!”