I made out, from his gestures
and his looks, that he had, in some incomprehensible manner, discovered
the presence of my guest; and, stranger still, that he was scared by the
idea of a person in my room. I endeavored to compose him on the system
which I have already mentioned--that is to say, I swore at him in _my_
language. The result not proving satisfactory, I own I shook my fist in
his face, and left the bedchamber.
Returning to my fair friend, I found her walking backward and forward in a
state of excitement wonderful to behold. She had not waited for me to fill
her glass--she had begun the generous Moselle in my absence. I prevailed
on her with difficulty to place herself at the table. Nothing would induce
her to eat. "My appetite is gone," she said. "Give me wine."
The generous Moselle deserves its name--delicate on the palate, with
prodigious "body." The strength of this fine wine produced no stupefying
effect on my remarkable guest. It appeared to strengthen and exhilarate
her--nothing more. She always spoke in the same low tone, and always, turn
the conversation as I might, brought it back with the same dexterity to
the subject of the Englishman in the next room. In any other woman this
persistency would have offended me. My lovely guest was irresistible; I
answered her questions with the docility of a child.
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