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"She has needed," I replied to the Baron, "but one thing, — to be aroused, to be kindled. See, it is done! I have thought that a life of cabinets and policy might achieve this, for her talent is second not even to her beauty. "

"It is unhappy that both should be wasted," said the Baron. "She, of course, will never marry. "

"Why not?"

"For various reasons. "

"One?"

"She is poor. "

"Which will not signify to your Excellency. Another?"

"She is too beautiful. One would fall in love with her. And to love one’s own wife — it is ridiculous!"

"Who should know?" I asked.

"All the world would suspect and laugh. "

"Let those laugh that win. "

"No, — she would never do as a wife; but then as ——"

"But then in France we do not insult hospitality!"

The Baron transferred his gaze to me for a moment, then tapped his snuff-box, and approached the circle round Delphine.

It was odd that we, the arch enemies of the hour, could speak without the intervention of seconds; but I hoped that the Baron’s conversation might be diverting, — the Baron hoped that mine might be didactic.

They were very gay with Delphine. He leaned on the back of a chair and listened. One spoke of the new gallery of the Tuileries, and the five pavilions, — a remark which led us to architecture.

"We all build our own houses," said Delphine, at last, "and then complain that they cramp us here, and the wind blows in there, while the fault is not in the order, but in us, who increase here and shrink there without reason. "

"You speak in metaphors," said the Baron.

"Precisely. A truth is often more visible veiled than nude. "

"We should soon exhaust the orders," I interposed; "for who builds like his neighbor?"

"Slight variations, Monsieur! Though we take such pains to conceal the style, it is not difficult to tell the order of architecture chosen by the builders in this room. My mother, for instance — you perceive that her pavilion would be the florid Gothic. "

"Mademoiselle’s is the Doric," I said.

"Has been," she murmured, with a quick glance.

"And mine, Mademoiselle?" asked the Baron, indifferently.

"Ah, Monsieur," she returned,
looking serenely upon him, "when one has all the winning cards in hand and yet loses the stake, we allot him un pavillon chinois. " — which was the polite way of dubbing him Court Fool.

The Baron’s eyes fell. Vexation and alarm were visible on his contracted brow. He stood in meditation for some time. It must have been evident to him that Delphine knew of the recent occurrences, — that here in Paris she could denounce him as the agent of a felony, the participant of a theft. What might prevent it? Plainly but one thing: no woman would denounce her husband. He had scarcely contemplated this step on arrival.

The guests were again scattered in groups round the room. I examined an engraving on an adjacent table. Delphine reclined as lazily in a fauteuil as if her life did not hang in the balance. The Baron drew near.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "you allotted me just now a cap and bells. If two should wear it? — if I should invite another into my pavillon chinois? — if I should propose to complete an alliance, desired by my father, with the ancient family of St. Cyr? — if, in short, Mademoiselle, I should request you to become my wife?"

"Eh, bien, Monsieur, — and if you should?" I heard her coolly reply.

But it was no longer any business of mine. I rose and sought Mme. de St. Cyr, who, I thought, was slightly uneasy, perceiving some mystery to be afloat. After a few words, I retired.