He set down his
glass with such sudden force that its slender stem was snapped and
a red stream of wine streaked the white tablecloth and spread around
a silver flowerbowl. The sight of that stain recalled him to himself
and to the manners he had allowed himself for a moment to forget.
"Bardelys, a thousand apologies for my clumsiness," he muttered.
"Spilt wine," I laughed, "is a good omen."
And for once I accepted that belief, since but for the shedding of
that wine and its sudden effect upon him, it is likely we had
witnessed a shedding of blood. Thus, was the ill-timed pleasantry
of my feather-brained La Fosse tided over in comparative safety.
But the topic being raised was not so easily abandoned. Mademoiselle
de Lavedan grew to be openly discussed, and even the Count's
courtship of her came to be hinted at, at first vaguely, then
pointedly, with a lack of delicacy for which I can but blame the
wine with which these gentlemen had made a salad of their senses.
In growing alarm I watched the Count. But he showed no further sign
of irritation. He sat and listened as though no jot concerned.
There were moments when he even smiled at some lively sally, and at
last he went so far as to join in that merry combat of wits, and
defend himself from their attacks, which were made with a good-humour
that but thinly veiled the dislike he was held in and the
satisfaction that was culled from his late discomfiture.
For a while I hung back and took no share in the banter that was
toward.
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