“Montauran,” the count was saying, “has birth and breeding, he is a charming fellow, but he doesn’t understand gallantry. He is too young to have seen Versailles. His education is deficient. Instead of diplomatically defaming, he strikes a blow. He may be able to love violently, but he will never have that fine flower of breeding in his gallantry which distinguished Lauzun, Adhemar, Coigny, and so many others! He hasn’t the winning art of saying those pretty nothings to women which, after all, they like better than bursts of passion, which soon weary them. Yes, though he has undoubtedly had many love-affairs, he has neither the grace nor the ease that should belong to them.” “I have noticed that myself,” said Marie. “Ah!” thought the count, “there’s an inflection in her voice, and a look in her eye which shows me plainly I shall soon be _on terms_ with her; and faith! to get her, I’ll believe all she wants me to.” He offered her his hand, for dinner was now announced. Mademoiselle de Verneuil did the honors with a politeness and tact which could only have been acquired by the life and training of a court. “Leave us,” she whispered to Hulot as they left the table. “You will only frighten him; whereas, if I am alone with him I shall soon find out all I want to know; he has reached the point where a man tells me everything he thinks, and sees through my eyes only.” “But afterwards?” said Hulot, evidently intending to claim the prisoner. “Afterwards, he is to be free--free as air,” she replied. “But he was taken with arms in his hand.” “No,” she said, making one of those sophistical jokes with which women parry unanswerable arguments, “I had disarmed him. Count,” she said, turning back to him as Hulot departed, “I have just obtained your liberty, but--nothing for nothing,” she added, laughing, with her head on one side as if to interrogate him. “Ask all, even my name and my honor,” he cried, intoxicated. “I lay them at your feet.” He advanced to seize her hand, trying to make her take his passion for gratitude; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil was not a woman to be thus misled. So, smiling in a way to give some hope to this new lover, she drew back a few steps and said: “You might make me regret my confidence.” “The imagination of a young girl is more rapid than that of a woman,” he answered, laughing. “A young girl has more to lose than a woman.” “True; those who carry a treasure ought to be distrustful.” “Let us quit such conventional language,” she said, “and talk seriously. You are to give a ball at Saint-James. I hear that your headquarters, arsenals, and base of supplies are there. When is the ball to be?” “To-morrow evening.”