He approached Valmond, who
was moving on towards the Louis Quinze, with appreciation of a time for
disappearing.
"We know you, sir," said Medallion, "as Monsieur Valmond; but there are
those who think you would let us address you by a name better known--
indeed, the name dear to all Frenchmen. If it be so, will you not let us
call you Napoleon" (he took off his hat, and Valmond did the same), "and
will you tell us what we may do for you?"
Madame Chalice, a little way off, watched Valmond closely. He stood a
moment in a quandary, yet he was not outwardly nervous, and he answered
presently, with an air of empressement:
"Monsieur, my friends, I am in the hands of fate. I am dumb. Fate
speaks for me. But we shall know each other better; and I trust you,
who, as Frenchmen, descended from a better day in France, will not betray
me. Let us be patient till Destiny strikes the hour." Now for the first
time to-day Valmond saw Madame Chalice.
She could have done no better thing to serve him than to hold out her
hand, and say in her clear tones, which had, too, a fascinating sort of
monotony:
"Monsieur, if you are idle Friday afternoon, perhaps you will bestow on
me a half-hour at the Manor; and I will try to make half mine no bad
one."
He was keen enough to feel the delicacy of the point through the deftness
of the phrase; and what he said and what he did now had no pose, but
sheer gratitude.
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