at the inn. As I was saying, only eight or ten
nights' ago--"

"At least, take some wine," broke in Virginie again; and she rose and
summoned Mariotte, who had been listening, and who entered not without
perturbation.

"Thanks," said De Berniers. "Eight or ten nights ago--"

But the impending peril was averted by Mariotte, who dexterously spilled
a glass of wine over M. de Berniers's wig, causing him to rage after an
impotent fashion, and to drawl an oath.

Virginie was greatly confused at the unexpected and awkward prospect
which this attempt at conversation opened to her; but her thoughts were
presently diverted by the startling intelligence that Raoul de Montalvan
had accompanied her suitor, and was in attendance at the inn. Her first
sensation was one of pleasure,--unaccountable pleasure, she thought; for
why should the mere knowledge that the handsome captain was near her
occasion any particular joy? Ah! she knew; she could now have the end of
that mysterious and interesting story of the Rajah's daughter, with whom
De Montalvan had travelled through the tropical forests.

But her next feeling was one of deep embarrassment. How could she meet
M. de Montalvan in that dress? In the first place, he might have seen
her wear it in Paris, and in that case would at once detect her; perhaps
he would detect her under any circumstances, not being a vain, blind
fool like De Berniers. But, beyond that, she could not bear the idea of
such a masquerade with him. Of course she did not know why, but there
was the fact, fixed and unblinkable.

She was relieved in the way she would least have expected, and by M. de
Berniers himself. That gentleman, who was not fecund in ideas, and who,
even after becoming conscious of the existence of one within him, was
obliged to struggle with more violence than suited his temper in order
to give it birth, had, immediately after mentioning De Montalvan's name,
sunk into a profound revery. He gazed through his eye-glass from head to
foot at Virginie, until she began to fear he had discovered her secret.
At last his brow cleared, and, with a smile of self-congratulation, he
said, "I have it now! I have it now!"

Then he confided, not without a pang of wounded _amour-propre_, the fact
that, in the merry conflicts of wit at the capital, he had
sometimes--not often, like the others--suffered defeat. He related the
anecdote of the masquerade wager which he had lost to De Montalvan, and
exhorted