Trimousette did not think it necessary to mention this adventure to the duke. She did not see him every day even when he was in Paris, and besides, when she tried to tell him things, she always grew frightened and the words died upon her lips. The servants, however, told the duke of it when he came home in the evening. He had spent most of the intervening time trying to quiet Madame de Valençay, who was in paroxysms of terror. The duke grew every day more bored by his friend, and concluded to spend the evening at home, in order to escape Madame de Valençay and her scoundrelly running footmen, who watched his comings and goings as if he were a criminal. For the third or fourth time since his marriage he sought, of his own free will, his wife’s society. She spent her evenings in a little room on the ground floor of the Hôtel de Belgarde which opened upon the garden. When Trimousette heard the duke’s knock, she thought it was Victor’s and ran to open the door. The sight of her husband disconcerted her so that she stopped and hesitated awkwardly, quite unlike Madame de Valençay, who could not be awkward if she tried. Diane, the broken-legged hound, who was Trimousette’s constant companion, licked the duke’s hand, and gave a soft whine of delight. Trimousette, whose heart fluttered whenever she saw her husband, was undemonstrative and inarticulate. The duke, after politely greeting his duchess, and patting Diane’s head, walked to the fireplace, where a little blaze crackled. The time was September, and there was an autumn sharpness in the air. “I am afraid you were alarmed to-day by that mob of wretched women,” said the duke presently, as he warmed his hands at the fire, the mantel mirror reflecting his handsome face and figure. “No,” replied Trimousette timidly, “I was not frightened.” The duke stroked his chin reflectively. Silent women like his duchess were sometimes preferable to those who shrieked and screamed at the least provocation, like his friend Madame de Valençay. Having said so much Trimousette picked up her embroidery frame and, seating herself, began to embroider. The duke, looking at her, congratulated himself that she had lost the habit of blushing and starting every time he spoke to her, which, for a while after his marriage, made him apprehend that she might fall in love with him and that would have been excessively annoying. Meanwhile, Trimousette’s heart was palpitating faintly, and her black eyes were cast down because she was too embarrassed to look up. “I think,” said the duke, “it would be as well to go to the Château de Belgarde a little earlier this year.” He was thinking that he must get away for a time from Madame de Valençay’s cursed running footmen perpetually chasing him with her pink notes. Trimousette felt a sudden access of courage, which nerved her to say, almost boldly: “Would it not be pleasanter to go to Boury?” “That little dungeon in Brittany!” cried the duke, laughing.