"A gentleman, a friend," I answered. "I saw him, of course, a friend; but I think I know him, and should like to be certain. Is he not a certain Marquis?" Here was another question that was extremely awkward. "There are so many people here, and one may walk, at one time with one, and at another with a different one, that--" "That an unscrupulous person has no difficulty in evading a simple question like mine. Know then, once for all, that nothing disgusts a person of spirit so much as suspicion. You, Monsieur, are a gentleman of discretion. I shall respect you accordingly." "Mademoiselle would despise me, were I to violate a confidence." "But you don't deceive me. You imitate your friend's diplomacy. I hate diplomacy. It means fraud and cowardice. Don't you think I know him? The gentleman with the cross of white ribbon on his breast? I know the Marquis d'Harmonville perfectly. You see to what good purpose your ingenuity has been expended." "To that conjecture I can answer neither yes nor no." "You need not. But what was your motive in mortifying a lady?" "It is the last thing on earth I should do." "You affected to know me, and you don't; through caprice, or listlessness, or curiosity, you wished to converse, not with a lady, but with a costume. You admired, and you pretend to mistake me for another. But who is quite perfect? Is truth any longer to be found on earth?" "Mademoiselle has formed a mistaken opinion of me." "And you also of me; you find me less foolish than you supposed. I know perfectly whom you intend amusing with compliments and melancholy declamation, and whom, with that amiable purpose, you have been seeking." "Tell me whom you mean," I entreated. "Upon one condition." "What is that?" "That you will confess if I name the lady." "You describe my object unfairly," I objected. "I can't admit that I proposed speaking to any lady in the tone you describe." "Well, I shan't insist on that; only if I name the lady, you will promise to admit that I am right." "_Must_ I promise?" "Certainly not, there is no compulsion; but your promise is the only condition on which I will speak to you again." I hesitated for a moment; but how could she possibly tell? The Countess would scarcely have admitted this little romance to anyone; and the mask in the La Vallière costume could not possibly know who the masked domino beside her was. "I consent," I said, "I promise." "You must promise on the honor of a gentleman." "Well, I do; on the honor of a gentleman." "Then this lady is the Countess de St. Alyre." I was unspeakably surprised; I was disconcerted; but I remembered my promise, and said: