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She pressed their hands, smiling in an affable but rather haughty manner. Servigny asked her: "Are you less cross to-day, Mam'zelle?" She answered in a severe and peculiar tone: "Today, I am going to commit follies. I am in my Paris mood, look out!" Then turning toward Monsieur de Belvigne, she said: "You shall be my escort, my little Malmsey.
Saval, too, appeared serious and absorbed. From time to time he stroked his pointed beard, trimmed in the fashion of Henri III., and seemed to be meditating on the most profound subjects. Nobody spoke for several minutes. Then as they were serving the trout, Servigny remarked: "Silence is a good thing, at times.
Jean de Servigny, small, slender, a trifle bald, rather frail, with elegance of mien, curled mustache, bright eyes, and fine lips, was a man who seemed born and bred upon the boulevard. He was tireless in spite of his languid air, strong in spite of his pallor, one of those slight Parisians to whom gymnastic exercise, fencing, cold shower and hot baths give a nervous, artificial strength.
She did not appear again until the dinner hour, very pale and serious. Servigny had bought from a country storekeeper a workingman's costume, with velvet pantaloons, a flowered waistcoat and a blouse, and he adopted the local dialect. Yvette was in a hurry for them to finish, feeling her courage ebbing. As soon as the coffee was served she went to her room again.
Servigny looked at her for a long time: "You are adorable this evening, Mam'zelle," said he, "I wish I could always see you like this." "Don't make a declaration, Muscade. I should take it seriously, and that might cost you dear." The Marquise seemed happy, very happy.
Why, in that set they call me the Duke de Servigny. I don't know how nor why. But at any rate the Duke de Servigny I am and shall remain, without complaining or protesting. It does not worry me. I should have no footing there whatever without a title." But Saval would not be convinced. "Well, you are of rank, and so you may remain. But, as for me, no.
"You can't imagine what a collection of fictitious titles are met in this lair," said Servigny, "By the way, I shall present you by the name of Count Saval; plain Saval would not do at all." "Oh, no, indeed!" cried his friend; "I would not have anyone think me capable of borrowing a title, even for an evening, even among those people. Ah, no!" Servigny began to laugh. "How stupid you are!
Madame Obardi had grasped her lover, and with her head uplifted toward him she cried to him: "Save her, oh, save her!" But Servigny turning around saw a letter on the table. He seized it with a rapid movement, and read the address.
Then with an indolence in her amorous and lazy gestures, she gave her pretty white hand to the Baron, who kissed it softly. Yvette and Servigny started. They went along the river, crossed the bridge and went on to the island, and then seated themselves on the bank, beneath the willows, for it was too soon to go to La Grenouillere.
Muscade, how do you do, Muscade?" she repeated. Servigny shook her hand violently, as he would a man's, and said: "Mademoiselle Yvette, my friend, Baron Saval." "Good evening, Monsieur. Are you always as tall as that?" Servigny replied in that bantering tone which he always used with her, in order to conceal his mistrust and his uncertainty: "No, Mam'zelle.
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