The Indiscretion of the Duchess. Anthony Hope

made no reply; the frown on his face persisted.

      “Isn’t it a pity,” I asked, “to wreck a pleasant party for the sake of a fine distinction? The presence of Mlle. de Berensac would have infinitely increased our pleasure; but how would it have diminished our crime?”

      “I wish I had known you sooner, Mr. Aycon,” said the duchess; “then I needn’t have asked him at all.”

      I bowed, but I was content with things as they were. The duchess sat with the air of a child who has been told that she is naughty, but declines to accept the statement. I was puzzled at the stern morality exhibited by my friend Gustave. His next remark threw some light on his feelings.

      “Heavens! if it became known, what would be thought?” he demanded suddenly.

      “If one thinks of what is thought,” said the duchess with a shrug, “one is—”

      “A fool,” said I, “or—a lover!”

      “Ah!” cried the duchess, a smile coming on her lips. “If it is that, I’ll forgive you, my dear Gustave. Whose good opinion do you fear to lose?”

      “I write,” said Gustave, with a rhetorical gesture, “to say that I am going to the house of some friends to meet my sister!”

      “Oh, you write?” we murmured.

      “My sister writes to say she is not there!”

      “Oh, she writes?” we murmured again.

      “And it is thought—”

      “By whom?” asked the duchess.

      “By Lady Cynthia Chillingdon,” said I.

      “That it is a trick—a device—a deceit!” continued poor Gustave.

      “It was decidedly indiscreet of you to come,” said the duchess reprovingly. “How was I to know about Lady Cynthia? If I had known about Lady Cynthia, I would not have asked you; I would have asked Mr. Aycon only. Or perhaps you also, Mr. Aycon—”

      “Madame,” said I, “I am alone in the world.”

      “Where has Claire gone to?” asked Gustave.

      “Paris,” pouted the duchess.

      Gustave rose, flinging his napkin on the table.

      “I shall follow her to-morrow,” he said. “I suppose you’ll go back to England, Gilbert?”

      If Gustave left us, it was my unhesitating resolve to return to England.

      “I suppose I shall,” said I.

      “I suppose you must,” said the duchess ruefully. “Oh, isn’t it exasperating? I had planned it all so delightfully!”

      “If you had told the truth—” began Gustave.

      “I should not have had a preacher to supper,” said the duchess sharply; then she fell to laughing again.

      “Is Mlle. de Berensac irrecoverable?” I suggested.

      “Why, yes. She has gone to take her turn of attendance on your rich old aunt, Gustave.”

      I think that there was a little malice in the duchess’ way of saying this.

      There seemed nothing more to be done. The duchess herself did not propose to defy conventionality to the extent of inviting me to stay. To do her justice, as soon as the inevitable was put before her, she accepted it with good grace, and, after supper, busied herself in discovering the time and manner in which her guests might pursue their respective journeys. I may be flattering myself, but I thought that she displayed a melancholy satisfaction on discovering that Gustave de Berensac must leave at ten o’clock the next morning, whereas I should be left to kick my heels in idleness at Cherbourg if I set out before five in the afternoon.

      “Oh, you can spend the time en route,” said Gustave. “It will be better.”

      The duchess looked at me; I looked at the duchess.

      “My dear Gustave,” said I, “you are very considerate. You could not do more if I also were in love with Lady Cynthia.”

      “Nor,” said the duchess, “if I were quite unfit to be spoken to.”

      “If my remaining till the afternoon will not weary the duchess—” said I.

      “The duchess will endure it,” said she, with a nod and a smile.

      Thus it was settled, a shake of the head conveying Gustave’s judgment. And soon after, Mme. de Saint-Maclou bade us good-night. Tired with my journey, and (to tell the truth) a little out of humor with my friend, I was not long in seeking my bed. At the top of the stairs a group of three girls were gossiping; one of them handed me a candle and flung open the door of my room with a roguish smile on her broad good-tempered face.

      “One of the greatest virtues of women,” said I pausing on the threshold, “is fidelity.”

      “We are devoted to Mme. la Duchesse,” said the girl.

      “Another, hardly behind it, is discretion,” I continued.

      “Madame inculcates it on us daily,” said she. I took out a napoleon.

      “Ladies,” said I, placing the napoleon in the girl’s hand, “I am obliged for your kind attentions. Good-night!” and I shut the door on the sound of a pleased, excited giggling. I love to hear such sounds; they make me laugh myself, for joy that this old world, in spite of everything, holds so much merriment; and to their jovial lullaby I fell asleep,

      Moreover—the duchess teaching discretion! There can have been nothing like it since Baby Charles and Steenie conversed within the hearing of King James! But, then discretion has two meanings—whereof the one is “Do it not,” and the other “Tell it not.” Considering of this ambiguity, I acquitted the duchess of hypocrisy.

      At ten o’clock the next morning we got rid of my dear friend Gustave de Berensac. Candor compels me to put the statement in that form; for the gravity which had fallen upon him the night before endured till the morning, and he did not flinch from administering something very like a lecture to his hostess. His last words were an invitation to me to get into the carriage and start with him. When I suavely declined, he told me that I should regret it. It comforts me to think that his prophecy, though more than once within an ace of the most ample fulfillment, yet in the end was set at naught by the events which followed.

      Gustave rolled down the hill, the duchess sighed relief.

      “Now,” said she, “we can enjoy ourselves fora few hours, Mr. Aycon. And after that—solitude!”

      I was really very sorry for the duchess. Evidently society and gayety were necessary as food and air to her, and her churl of a husband denied them. My opportunity was short, but I laid myself out to make the most of it. I could give her nothing more than a pleasant memory, but I determined to do that.

      We spent the greater part of the day in a ramble through the woods that lined the slopes of the hill behind the house; and all through the hours the duchess chatted about herself, her life, her family—and then about the duke. If the hints she gave were to be trusted, her husband deserved little consideration at her hands, and, at the worst, the plea of reprisal might offer some excuse for her, if she had need of one. But she denied the need, and here I was inclined to credit her. For with me, as with Gustave de Berensac before the shadow of Lady Cynthia came between, she was, most distinctly, a “good comrade.” Sentiment made no appearance in our conversation, and, as the day ruthlessly wore on, I regretted honestly that I must go in deference to a conventionality which seemed, in this case at least—Heaven forbid that I should indulge in general theories—to mask no reality. Yet she was delightful by virtue of the vitality in her; and the woods echoed again and again with our laughter.

      At four o’clock