the duke rose, came to the window, and looked at the broken pane. he stepped out on to the terrace and looked at the turf; then he came back into the room.
"this looks serious," he said. "that pane has not been broken at all. if it had been broken, the pieces of glass would be lying on the turf. it has been cut out. we must warn your father to look to his treasures."
"i told you so," said germaine. "i said that arsene lupin was in the neighbourhood."
"arsene lupin is a very capable man," said the duke, smiling. "but there's no reason to suppose that he's the only burglar in france or even in ile-et-vilaine."
"i'm sure that he's in the neighbourhood. i have a feeling that he is," said germaine stubbornly.
the duke shrugged his shoulders, and said a smile: "far be it from me to contradict you. a woman's intuition is always—well, it's always a woman's intuition."
he came back into the hall, and as he did so the door opened and a shock-headed man in the dress of a gamekeeper stood on the threshold.
"there are visitors to see you, mademoiselle germaine," he said, in a very deep bass voice.
"what! are you answering the door, firmin?" said germaine.
"yes, mademoiselle germaine: there's only me to do it. all the servants have started for the station, and my wife and i are going to see after the family to-night and to-morrow morning. shall i show these gentlemen in?"
"who are they?" said germaine.
"two gentlemen who say they have an appointment."
"what are their names?" said germaine.
"they are two gentlemen. i don't know what their names are. i've no memory for names."
"that's an advantage to any one who answers doors," said the duke, smiling at the stolid firmin.
"well, it can't be the two charolais again. it's not time for them to come back. i told them papa would not be back yet," said germaine.
"no, it can't be them, mademoiselle germaine," said firmin, with decision.
"very well; show them in," she said.
firmin went out, leaving the door open behind him; and they heard his hob-nailed boots clatter and squeak on the stone floor of the outer hall.
"charolais?" said the duke idly. "i don't know the name. who are they?"
"a little while ago alfred announced two gentlemen. i thought they were georges and andre du buit, for they promised to come to tea. i told alfred to show them in, and to my surprise there appeared two horrible provincials. i never—oh!"
she stopped short, for there, coming through the door, were the two charolais, father and son.
m. charolais pressed his motor-cap to his bosom, and bowed low. "once more i salute you, mademoiselle," he said.
his son bowed, and revealed behind him another young man.
"my second son. he has a chemist's shop," said m. charolais, waving a large red hand at the young man.
the young man, also blessed with the family eyes, set close together, entered the hall and bowed to the two girls. the duke raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.
"i'm very sorry, gentlemen," said germaine, "but my father has not yet returned."
"please don't apologize. there is not the slightest need," said m. charolais; and he and his two sons settled themselves down on three chairs, with the air of people who had come to make a considerable stay.
for a moment, germaine, taken aback by their coolness, was speechless; then she said hastily: "very likely he won't be back for another hour. i shouldn't like you to waste your time."
"oh, it doesn't matter," said m. charolais, with an indulgent air; and turning to the duke, he added, "however, while we're waiting, if you're a member of the family, sir, we might perhaps discuss the least you will take for the motor-car."
"i'm sorry," said the duke, "but i have nothing to do with it."
before m. charolais could reply the door opened, and firmin's deep voice said:
"will you please come in here, sir?"
a third young man came into the hall.
"what, you here, bernard?" said m. charolais. "i told you to wait at the park gates."
"i wanted to see the car too," said bernard.
"my third son. he is destined for the bar," said m. charolais, with a great air of paternal pride.
"but how many are there?" said germaine faintly.
before m. charolais could answer, firmin once more appeared on the threshold.
"the master's just come back, miss," he said.
"thank goodness for that!" said germaine; and turning to m. charolais, she added, "if you will come with me, gentlemen, i will take you to my father, and you can discuss the price of the car at once."
as she spoke she moved towards the door. m. charolais and his sons rose and made way for her. the father and the two eldest sons made haste to follow her out of the room. but bernard lingered behind, apparently to admire the bric-a-brac on the cabinets. with infinite quickness he grabbed two objects off the nearest, and followed his brothers. the duke sprang across the hall in three strides, caught him by the arm on the very threshold, jerked him back into the hall, and shut the door.
"no you don't, my young friend," he said sharply.
"don't what?" said bernard, trying to shake off his grip.
"you've taken a cigarette-case," said the duke.
"no, no, i haven't—nothing of the kind!" stammered bernard.
the duke grasped the young man's left wrist, plunged his hand into the motor-cap which he was carrying, drew out of it a silver cigarette-case, and held it before his eyes.
bernard turned pale to the lips. his frightened eyes seemed about to leap from their sockets.
"it—it—was a m-m-m-mistake," he stammered.
the duke shifted his grip to his collar, and thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat. bernard, helpless in his grip, and utterly taken aback by his quickness, made no resistance.
the duke drew out a morocco case, and said: "is this a mistake too?"
"heavens! the pendant!" cried sonia, who was watching the scene with parted lips and amazed eyes.
bernard dropped on his knees and clasped his hands.
"forgive me!" he cried, in a choking voice. "forgive me! don't tell any one! for god's sake, don't tell any one!"
and the tears came streaming from his eyes.
"you young rogue!" said the duke quietly.
"i'll never do it again—never! oh, have pity on me! if my father knew! oh, let me off!" cried bernard.
the duke hesitated, and looked down on him, frowning and pulling at his moustache. then, more quickly than one would have expected from so careless a trifler, his mind was made up.
"all right," he said slowly. "just for this once ... be off with you." and he jerked him to his feet and almost threw him into the outer hall.
"thanks! ... oh, thanks!" said bernard.
the duke shut the door and looked at sonia, breathing quickly.
"well? did you ever see anything like that? that young fellow will go a long way. the cheek of the thing! right under our very eyes! and this pendant, too: it would have been a pity to lose it. upon my word, i ought to have handed him over to the police."
"no, no!" cried sonia. "you did quite right to let him off—quite right."
the duke set the pendant on the ledge of the bureau, and came down the hall to sonia.
"what's the matter?" he said gently. "you're quite pale."
"it has upset me ... that unfortunate boy," said sonia; and her eyes were swimming with tears.
"do you pity the young rogue?" said the duke.
"yes; it's dreadful. his eyes were so terrified, and so boyish. and, to be caught like that ... stealing ... in the act. oh, it's hateful!"
"come, come, how sensitive you are!" said the duke, in a soothing, almost caressing tone. his eyes, resting on her charming, troubled face, were glowing with a warm admiration.
"yes; it's silly," said sonia; "but you noticed his eyes—the hunted look in them? you pitied him, didn't you? for you are kind at bottom."
"why at bottom?" said the duke.
"oh, i said at bottom because you look sarcastic, and at first sight you're so cold. but often that's only the mask of those who have suffered the most.... they are the most indulgent," said sonia slowly, hesitating, picking her words.
"yes, i suppose they are," said the duke thoughtfully.
"it's because when one has suffered one understands.... yes: one understands," said sonia.
there was a pause. the duke's eyes still rested on her face. the admiration in them was mingled with compassion.
"you're very unhappy here, aren't you?" he said gently.
"me? why?" said sonia quickly.
"your smile is so sad, and your eyes so timid," said the duke slowly. "you're just like a little child one longs to protect. are you quite alone in the world?"
his eyes and tones were full of pity; and a faint flush mantled sonia's cheeks.
"yes, i'm alone," she said.
"but have you no relations—no friends?" said the duke.
"no," said sonia.
"i don't mean here in france, but in your own country.... surely you have some in russia?"
"no, not a soul. you see, my father was a revolutionist. he died in siberia when i was a baby. and my mother, she died too—in paris. she had fled from russia. i was two years old when she died."
"it must be hard to be alone like that," said the duke.
"no," said sonia, with a faint smile, "i don't mind having no relations. i grew used to that so young ... so very young. but what is hard—but you'll laugh at me—"
"heaven forbid!" said the duke gravely.
"well, what is hard is, never to get a letter ... an envelope that one opens ... from some one who thinks about one—"
she paused, and then added gravely: "but i tell myself that it's nonsense. i have a certain amount of philosophy."
she smiled at him—an adorable child's smile.
the duke smiled too. "a certain amount of philosophy," he said softly. "you look like a philosopher!"
as they stood looking at one another with serious eyes, almost with eyes that probed one another's souls, the drawing-room door flung open, and germaine's harsh voice broke on their ears.
"you're getting quite impossible, sonia!" she cried. "it's absolutely useless telling you anything. i told you particularly to pack my leather writing-case in my bag with your own hand. i happen to open a drawer, and what do i see? my leather writing-case."
"i'm sorry," said sonia. "i was going—"
"oh, there's no need to bother about it. i'll see after it myself," said germaine. "but upon my word, you might be one of our guests, seeing how easily you take things. you're negligence personified."
"come, germaine ... a mere oversight," said the duke, in a coaxing tone.
"now, excuse me, jacques; but you've got an unfortunate habit of interfering in household matters. you did it only the other day. i can no longer say a word to a servant—"
"germaine!" said the duke, in sharp protest.
germaine turned from him to sonia, and pointed to a packet of envelopes and some letters, which bernard charolais had knocked off the table, and said, "pick up those envelopes and letters, and bring everything to my room, and be quick about it!"
she flung out of the room, and slammed the door behind her.
sonia seemed entirely unmoved by the outburst: no flush of mortification stained her cheeks, her lips did not quiver. she stooped to pick up the fallen papers.
"no, no; let me, i beg you," said the duke, in a tone of distress. and dropping on one knee, he began to gather together the fallen papers. he set them on the table, and then he said: "you mustn't mind what germaine says. she's—she's—she's all right at heart. it's her manner. she's always been happy, and had everything she wanted. she's been spoiled, don't you know. those kind of people never have any consideration for any one else. you mustn't let her outburst hurt you."
"oh, but i don't. i don't really," protested sonia.
"i'm glad of that," said the duke. "it isn't really worth noticing."
he drew the envelopes and unused cards into a packet, and handed them to her.
"there!" he said, with a smile. "that won't be too heavy for you."
"thank you," said sonia, taking it from him.
"shall i carry them for you?" said the duke.
"no, thank you, your grace," said sonia.
with a quick, careless, almost irresponsible movement, he caught her hand, bent down, and kissed it. a great wave of rosy colour flowed over her face, flooding its whiteness to her hair and throat. she stood for a moment turned to stone; she put her hand to her heart. then on hasty, faltering feet she went to the door, opened it, paused on the threshold, turned and looked back at him, and vanished.
