Madame d’Espaze had listened quite gravely to this recital, and now said, without any particular expression in her lazy voice: “I do not know, Monsieur le Marquis, why you are telling me all this.” “You do not, then,” retorted her guest, “see any connection between the constant meetings of Vergniaud and his followers with these young men at your house, his denunciation of them yesterday in the Manège, and their almost simultaneous arrest? I do.” The attack was so direct, and in all probability so unexpected, that the Comtesse for the first time showed signs of discomposure. She got up and moved away, her white robe trailing softly on the shining floor. Half over her shoulder she said: “You talk very strangely, M. de Château-Foix.” “Yet I think that what I say is just,” replied Gilbert, on his feet. “I wonder——” said the Comtesse. Then she turned and faced him. “But even if it were, it is not a way in which I should allow many people to speak to me in my house.” “But not many people come on my mission.” “Mon Dieu, no, fortunately!” exclaimed Madame d’Espaze with vivacity. “Fortunately, people do not often come to me and expect me to make myself responsible for every young hothead who gets himself into trouble with the authorities. Fortunately, that chair has not often served as a pulpit nor this sofa as a bench for the congregation. . . . Never mind, Monsieur le Marquis, but resume your sermon!” “I was not aware, Madame, that I was preaching,” said Château-Foix a trifle stiffly. “It was not my intention. I come rather as a suppliant.” “With what a menacing tone!” exclaimed the Comtesse, with a little laugh and a shrug of her beautiful shoulders. She trailed slowly back to the sofa and sank on the cushions. “And for what, pray, are you supplicating?” “For my cousin’s release,” said the Marquis. Half leaning back among the yellow cushions the Comtesse d’Espaze surveyed him indolently as he stood before her, very straight, his hand on the back of his chair. “Why not ask for the moon, Monsieur le Marquis?” she said at last. “I do not admit the suitability of the metaphor,” retorted Gilbert, controlling himself with difficulty. “I am asking for the life of a friend of your own, Madame. Surely my request is not a very strange one.” “And what makes you think that M. de Saint-Ermay is a friend of mine?” she asked at that. “You abound in strange suppositions, Monsieur.” “Because I know my cousin rather well, Madame,” answered the Marquis. “And since I have seen you——” he concluded, bowing. “Merci, Monsieur!” cried the lady. “And because, as I am to understand, Monsieur le Vicomte has done me the honour to admire me, I am to feel that his blood is on my head?” “If not responsibility, I should expect you to feel interest,” retorted Gilbert sternly. “But if you have no concern for the boy, I am only wasting your time and my own.” He made a movement as if to take his leave.