I held my peace; and in a moment she went on passionately:
“Who would have guessed that you would insult me? Is it your habit to insult women?”
“Not mine only, it seems,” said I, meeting her glance boldly.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Had you, then, an invitation from Mme. de Saint-Maclou?”
She drew back as if I had struck her. And I felt as though I had struck her. She looked at me for a moment with parted lips; then, without a word or a sign, she turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the hotel.
And I, glad to have something else to occupy my thoughts, started at a brisk pace along the foot-path that runs down the hill and meets the road which would lead me to the convent, for I had a thing or two to say to the duchess. And yet it was not of the duchess only that I thought as I went. There were also in my mind the indignant pride with which Marie Delhasse had questioned me, and the shrinking shame in her eyes at that counter-question of mine. The Duke of Saint-Maclou’s invitation seemed to bring as much disquiet to one of his guests as it had to his wife herself. But one thing struck me, and I found a sort of comfort in it: she had thought, it seemed, that the duchess was to be at home.
“Pah!” I cried suddenly to myself. “If she weren’t pretty, you’d say that made it worse!”
And I went on in a bad temper.
