“I shall have to command Charlotte to remain near you then this evening, monsieur,” she said. “In seizures of that kind it is always well to have prompt aid at hand.” I bowed my thanks. I was not yet quite sure of my voice. “And when one is subject to them,” went on madame, “one cannot be too careful.” “I have already assured mademoiselle,” I said, “that this is absolutely the first.” “Then she is very fortunate,” murmured madame, pensively. “She?” I repeated, staring at her. “I do not understand.” “Pardon me--then you are very fortunate, monsieur;” and she smiled broadly. I confess I did not yet quite catch her meaning. I was therefore the more surprised to see my companion redden deeply, then rise abruptly and walk to the other side of the room, where she paused with her back to us to contemplate the fall of Fribourg. Madame smiled again and cast me a glance full of meaning. “Yes, you have offended her,” she said. “Offended her?” I repeated in dismay. “I?” “It is always an error,” she explained, “to compel a lady to correct herself.” “I beg your pardon, madame,” I said humbly. “No; beg hers,” she corrected. “I do,” I said; “though I am utterly in the dark as to the nature of my offense.” “Come, Charlotte,” called madame. “Forgive him.” “What!” cried M. le Comte, appearing upon the threshold. “Do you already stand in need of forgiveness, Tavernay?” “It seems so,” I answered, somewhat miserably. “Certainly for my thick head and dull wits.” At the words, Mlle. de Chambray ventured a glance at me, and I saw a smile scatter the clouds. She struggled to hold it back, to suppress it, but quite in vain. “Come, you are forgiven,” cried our host; and it seemed to me that in his glance also there was a hidden meaning. “I knew she was not hard of heart. And now for dinner.” “M. de Tavernay,” said madame, “to you I shall confide Charlotte--or should I put it the other way?” “Either way pleases me immensely, madame,” I said, bowing. “You must know,” madame continued, “M. de Tavernay is subject to sudden seizures of the heart, and that Charlotte is the only one present who can work a cure.” “Our friend is not the first to be so afflicted,” laughed M. le Comte, crossing to his wife’s side. “Luckily I also found the one person who could work a cure.” “Nonsense!” protested Mlle. de Chambray, very red. “M. de Tavernay was really suffering acutely.” “Well, so have I suffered acutely,” retorted her tormentor. “Did I not, madame?” “Or pretended to,” rejoined madame. “With that disease it is often impossible to tell where reality leaves off and pretense begins; you men have made so close a study of the symptoms. But come, monsieur; the dinner waits.”