“Yet Wolf had a distinct object in making a good impression upon her,” she said reflectively.
“No doubt. As soon as she returned she began to talk of him.”
And next instant I recollected the strange effect the news of his arrival in Paris had had upon Yolande, and the curiously tragic event which had subsequently occurred. All was puzzling—all inscrutable.
A silence fell between us. I was revolving in my mind whether I should ask this wizen-faced old leader of Society a further question. With sudden resolve I turned to her again and asked:
“O Baronne, I had quite forgotten. Do you chance to know the Countess de Foville, of Brussels? They have a château down in the Ardennes, and move in the best set in Belgium?”
“De Foville? De Foville?” she repeated. “What, do you mean the mother of that little witch Yolande?”
“Yes. But why do you call her a witch?” I demanded, with feigned laughter.
“Why?” cried the old woman, the expression of her face growing dark with displeasure. “Well, I do not know whether she is a friend of yours, but all I can tell you is that should she be, the best course for you to pursue is to cut her acquaintance.”
“What do you mean?” I gasped.
“I mean exactly what I have said.”
“But I don’t understand,” I cried. “Be more frank with me,” I implored.
“No,” she answered in that hard voice, by which I knew that mention of Yolande’s name had displeased her. “Remember that we are friends, and that sometimes we have interests in common. Therefore, take this piece of advice from an old woman who knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Knows that your friendship with the pretty Yolande is dangerous—extremely dangerous.”
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