Certainly
he was a man with a grand manner,--the manner of one of those never-
to-be-forgotten haughty and careless aristocrats of the "Reign of
Terror" who half redeemed their vicious lives by the bravery with
which they faced the guillotine. Attracted, yet repelled by him,
Angela had always been,--even when she had known no more of him than
is known of a casual acquaintance met at different parties and
reunions, but now that she was aware of Sylvie's infatuation, the
mingled attraction and revulsion became stronger, and she caught
herself wishing fervently that the Marquis would rouse himself from
his lethargy of pleasure, and do justice to the capabilities which
Nature had evidently endowed him with, if a fine head and noble
features are to be taken as exponents of character. Fontenelle
himself, meanwhile, leaning carelessly back in the chair he had
taken, looked at her with a little quizzical lifting of his
eyebrows.
"You are very silent, mademoiselle," he broke out at last, "Have you
nothing to say to me?"
At this straight question Angela recovered her equanimity.
"I HAD something to say to you, Marquis," she answered quietly, "but
it was to have been said to-morrow."
"To-morrow? Ah, yes! You receive your world of art to-morrow," he
said, "and I was to come and meet la Comtesse,--and of course she
would not have been here! I felt that by a natural instinct!
Something psychological--something occult! I saw her carriage pass
my windows up the Champs Elysees,--and I followed in a common
fiacre.
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