The duchess said nothing, but her eyebrows mounted a little higher, till they almost reached her clustering hair.
“One—two—three?” repeated Gustave, in unmistakable questioning. “Does Claire remain upstairs?”
Appeal—amusement—fright—shame—triumph—chased one another across the eyes of Mme. de Saint-Maclou: each made so swift an appearance, so swift an exit, that they seemed to blend in some peculiar personal emotion proper to the duchess and to no other woman born. And she bit the handkerchief harder than ever. For the life of me I couldn’t help it; I began to laugh; the duchess’ face disappeared altogether behind the handkerchief.
“Do you mean to say Claire’s not here?” cried Gustave, turning on her swiftly and accusingly.
The head behind the handkerchief was shaken, first timidly, then more emphatically, and a stifled voice vouchsafed the news:
“She left three days ago.”
Gustave and I looked at one another. There was a pause. At last I drew a chair back from the table, and said:
“If madame is ready”
The duchess whisked her handkerchief away and sprang up. She gave one look at Gustave’s grave face, and then, bursting into a merry laugh, caught me by the arm, crying:
“Isn’t it fun, Mr. Aycon? There’s nobody but me! Isn’t it fun?”
