denly I felt less glad: a change of feeling which I do not seek to defend.
“Then where are you going?” I asked in much curiosity.
“I am going,” said the duchess, assuming in a moment a most serious air, “into religious retirement for a few days.”
“Religious retirement?” I echoed in surprise.
“Are you thinking it’s not my métier?” she asked, her eyes gleaming again.
“But where?” I cried.
“Why, there, to be sure.” And she pointed to where the square white convent stood on the edge of the bay, under the hill of Avranches. “There, at the convent. The Mother Superior is my friend, and will protect me.”
The duchess spoke as though the guillotine were being prepared for her. I sat silent. The situation was becoming rather too complicated for my understanding. Unfortunately, however, it was to become more complicated still; for the duchess, turning to the English tongue again, laid a hand on my arm and said in her most coaxing tones:
“And you, my dear Mr. Aycon, are going to stay a few days in Avranches.”
“Not an hour!” would have expressed the resolve of my intellect. But we are not all intellect; and what I actually said was:
“What for?”
“In case,” said the duchess, “I want you, Mr. Aycon.”
“I will stay,” said I, nodding, “just a few days at Avranches.”
