“I call you Rose, my pretty one, because the rose is the queen of flowers, as you are the queen of waiting-maids.” “In good truth, my Lord,” said the maid, “I have always found you a lively, witty gentleman, but you surpass yourself this evening.” Thibault drew himself up, flattered by this remark--really a letter addressed to the Baron, but which it had fallen to the shoe-maker to unseal. “Let us hope your mistress will think the same!” he said. “As to that,” said the waiting maid, “any man can make one of these ladies of fashion think him the cleverest and wittiest in the world, simply by holding his tongue.” “Thank you,” he said, “I will remember what you say.” “Hush!” said the woman to Thibault, “there is Madame behind the dressing-room curtains; follow me now staidly.” For they had now to cross an open space that lay between the wooded part of the park and the flight of steps leading up to the Castle. Thibault began walking towards the latter. “Now, now,” said the maid, catching hold of him by the arm, “what are you doing, you foolish man?” “What am I doing? well, I confess Suzette, I don’t know in the least what I _am_ doing!” “Suzette! so that’s my name now, is it? I think Monsieur does me the honour of calling me in turn by the name of all his mistresses. But come, this way! You are not dreaming I suppose of going through the great reception rooms. That would give a fine opportunity to my lord the Count, truly!” And the maid hurried Thibault towards a little door, to the right of which was a spiral staircase. Half-way up, Thibault put his arm round his companion’s waist, which was as slender and supple as a snake. “I think we must be in the corridors, now, eh?” he asked, trying to kiss the young woman’s pretty cheek. “No, not yet,” she answered; “but never mind that.” “By my faith,” he said, “if my name this evening were Thibault instead of Raoul, I would carry you up with me to the garrets, instead of stopping on the first floor!” At that moment a door was heard grating on its hinges. “Quick, quick, Monsieur!” said the maid, “Madame is growing impatient.” And drawing Thibault after her, she ran up the remaining stairs to the corridor, opened a door, pushed Thibault into a room, and shut the door after him, firmly believing that it was the Baron Raoul de Vauparfond or, as she herself called him, the most forgetful man in the world, whom she had thus secured. CHAPTER XVII THE BARON DE MONT-GOBERT Thibault found himself in the Countess’s room. If the magnificence of Bailiff Magloire’s furniture rescued from the lumber-room of his Highness the Duke of Orleans, had astonished Thibault, the daintiness, the harmony, the taste of the Countess’s room filled him with intoxicating delight. The rough child of the forest had never seen anything like it, even in dreams; for one cannot even dream of things of which we have no idea.