At the end of the quadrille more than one whisper was poured into more than one ear. The less pretty women made moral speeches to their partners, commenting on the budding liaison between Martial and the Comtesse de Soulanges. The handsomest wondered at her easy surrender. The men could not understand such luck as the Baron’s, not regarding him as particularly fascinating. A few indulgent women said it was not fair to judge the Countess too hastily; young wives would be in a very hapless plight if an expressive look or a few graceful dancing steps were enough to compromise a woman.
Martial alone knew the extent of his happiness. During the last figure, when the ladies had to form the moulinet, his fingers clasped those of the Countess, and he fancied that, through the thin perfumed kid of her gloves, the young wife’s grasp responded to his amorous appeal.
“Madame,” said he, as the quadrille ended, “do not go back to the odious corner where you have been burying your face and your dress until now. Is admiration the only benefit you can obtain from the jewels that adorn your white neck and beautifully dressed hair? Come and take a turn through the rooms to enjoy the scene and yourself.”
Madame de Soulanges yielded to her seducer, who thought she would be his all the more surely if he could only show her off. Side by side they walked two or three times amid the groups who crowded the rooms. The Comtesse de Soulanges, evidently uneasy, paused for an instant at each door before entering, only doing so after stretching her neck to look at all the men there. This alarm, which crowned the Baron’s satisfaction, did not seem to be removed till he said to her, “Make yourself easy; he is not here.”
They thus made their way to an immense picture gallery in a wing of the mansion, where their eyes could feast in anticipation on the splendid display of a collation prepared for three hundred persons. As supper was about to begin, Martial led the Countess to an oval boudoir looking on to the garden, where the rarest flowers and a few shrubs made a scented bower under bright blue hangings. The murmurs of the festivity here died away. The Countess, at first startled, refused firmly to follow the young man; but, glancing in a mirror, she no doubt assured herself that they could be seen, for she seated herself on an ottoman with a fairly good grace.
“This room is charming,” said she, admiring the sky-blue hangings looped with pearls.
“All here is love and delight!” said the Baron, with deep emotion.
In the mysterious light which prevailed he looked at the Countess, and detected on her gently agitated face an expression of uneasiness, modesty, and eagerness which enchanted him. The young lady smiled, and this smile seemed to put an end to the struggle of feeling surging in her heart; in the most insinuating way she took her adorer’s left hand, and drew from his finger the ring on which she had fixed her eyes.
“What a fine diamond!” she exclaimed in the artless tone of a young girl betraying the incitement of a first temptation.
Martial, troubled by the Countess’ involuntary but intoxicating touch, like a caress, as she drew off the ring, looked at her with eyes as glittering as the gem.
“Wear it,” he said, “in memory of this hour, and for the love of—”
She was looking at him with such rapture that he did not end the sentence; he kissed her hand.
“You give it me?” she said, looking much astonished.
“I wish I had the whole world to offer you!”
“You are not joking?” she went on, in a voice husky with too great satisfaction.
“Will you accept only my diamond?”
“You will never take it back?” she insisted.
“Never.”
She put the ring on her finger. Martial, confident of coming happiness, was about to put his hand round her waist, but she suddenly rose, and said in a clear voice, without any agitation:
“I accept the diamond, monsieur, with the less scruple because it belongs to me.”
The Baron was speechless.
“Monsieur de Soulanges took it lately from my dressing-table, and told me he had lost it.”
“You are mistaken, madame,” said Martial, nettled. “It was given me by Madame de Vaudremont.”
“Precisely so,” she said with a smile. “My husband borrowed this ring of me, he gave it to her, she made it a present to you; my ring has made a little journey, that is all. This ring will perhaps tell me all I do not know, and teach me the secret of always pleasing.—Monsieur,” she went on, “if it had not been my own, you may be sure I should not have risked paying so dear for it; for a young woman, it is said, is in danger with you. But, you see,” and she touched a spring within the ring, “here is M. de Soulanges’ hair.”
She fled into the crowded rooms so swiftly, that it seemed useless to try to follow her; besides, Martial, utterly confounded, was in no mood to carry the adventure further. The Countess’ laugh found an echo in the boudoir, where the young coxcomb now perceived, between two shrubs, the Colonel and Madame de Vaudremont, both laughing heartily.
“Will you have my horse, to ride after your prize?” said the Colonel.
The Baron took the banter poured upon him by Madame de Vaudremont and Montcornet with a good grace, which secured their silence as to the events of the evening, when his friend exchanged his charger for a rich and pretty young wife.
As the Comtesse de Soulanges drove across Paris from the Chausée d’Antin to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where she lived, her soul was prey to many alarms. Before leaving the Hôtel Gondreville she went through all the rooms, but found neither her aunt nor her husband, who had gone away without her. Frightful suspicions then tortured her ingenuous mind. A silent witness
