There were others to whom this growing reality was painful. The young Seigneur was serious enough about it, and more than once, irritated and perturbed, he sought Madame Chalice; but she gave him no encouragement, remarking coldly that Monsieur Valmond probably knew very well what he was doing, and was weighing all consequences. She had become interested in a passing drama, and De la Riviere’s attentions produced no impression on her, and gave her no pleasure. They were, however, not obtrusive. She had seen much of him two years before; he had been a good friend of her husband. She was amused at his attentions then; she had little to occupy her, and she felt herself superior to any man’s emotions: not such as this young Seigneur could win her away from her passive but certain fealty. She had played with fire, from the very spirit of adventure in her, but she had not been burnt. “You say he is an impostor, dear monsieur,” she said languidly: “do pray exert yourself, and prove him one. What is your evidence?” She leaned back in the very chair where she had sat looking at Valmond a few weeks before, her fingers idly smoothing out the folds of her dress. “Oh, the thing is impossible,” he answered, blowing the smoke of a cigarette; “we’ve had no real proof of his birth, and life--and so on.” “But there are relics--and so on!” she said suggestively, and she picked up the miniature of the Emperor. “Owning a skeleton doesn’t make it your ancestor,” he replied. He laughed, for he was pleased at his own cleverness, and he also wished to remain good-tempered. “I am so glad to see you at last take the true attitude towards this,” she responded brightly. “If it’s a comedy, enjoy it. If it’s a tragedy”--she drew herself up with a little shudder, for she was thinking of that figure dropping from Elise’s window--“you cannot stop it. Tragedy is inevitable; but comedy is within the gift and governance of mortals.” For a moment again she was lost in the thought of Elise, of Valmond’s vulgarity and commonness; and he had dared to speak words of love almost to her! She flushed to the hair, as she had done fifty times since she had seen him that moonlit night. Ah, she had thought him the dreamer, the enthusiast--maybe, in kind, credulous moments, the great man he claimed to be; and he had only been the sensualist after all! That he did not love Elise, she knew well enough: he had been coldblooded; in this, at least, he was Napoleonic.