discussing some question as though she were in her studio, and watching
the duke come towards her, while tranquilly taking her sherbet. She
greeted him with perfect naturalness. Those near had discreetly retired
to a little distance. There seemed to exist between them, however,
notwithstanding what de Gery had overheard with regard to their presumed
relations, nothing more than a quite intellectual intimacy, a playful
familiarity.

"I called at your house, mademoiselle, on my way to the Bois."

"I was informed of it. You even went into the studio."

"And I saw the famous group--my group."

"Well?"

"It is very fine. The hound runs as though he were mad. The fox scampers
away admirably. Only I did not quite understand. You had told me that it
was our own story, yours and mine."

"Ah, there! Try. It is an apologue that I read in--You do not read
Rabelais, M. le Duc?"

"My faith, no. He is too coarse."

"Ah, well, his works were the text-book of my first reading lessons.
Very badly brought up, you know. Oh, exceedingly badly. My apologue,
then, is taken from Rabelais. Here it is: Bacchus created a wonderful
fox, impossible to capture. Vulcan, on the other hand, gave a dog of
his own creation the power to catch every animal that he should pursue.