Thibault drew himself up, flattered by this remark—really a letter addressed to the Baron, but which it had fallen to the shoe-maker to unseal.
“Let us hope your mistress will think the same!” he said.
“As to that,” said the waiting maid, “any man can make one of these ladies of fashion think him the cleverest and wittiest in the world, simply by holding his tongue.”
“Thank you,” he said, “I will remember what you say.”
“Hush!” said the woman to Thibault, “there is Madame behind the dressing-room curtains; follow me now staidly.”
For they had now to cross an open space that lay between the wooded part of the park and the flight of steps leading up to the Castle. Thibault began walking towards the latter.
“Now, now,” said the maid, catching hold of him by the arm, “what are you doing, you foolish man?”
“What am I doing? well, I confess Suzette, I don’t know in the least what I am doing!”
“Suzette! so that’s my name now, is it? I think Monsieur does me the honour of calling me in turn by the name of all his mistresses. But come, this way! You are not dreaming I suppose of going through the great reception rooms. That would give a fine opportunity to my lord the Count, truly!”
And the maid hurried Thibault towards a little door, to the right of which was a spiral staircase.